The boy with the heart on his sleeve
by euphorbic
Summary: AU: Modern, No Powers. Charles loses a high-stakes bet to Raven and is required to get a tattoo. However, when he makes a disparaging remark about the art form, Raven's acerbic mentor, Erik, steps in. Or, the one where Erik and Raven are professional tattoo artists. M/M Erik/Charles, Raven/Hank
1. The boy with the heart on his sleeve

Disclaim: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by Marvel Inc., who owns relevant copyrights to additional material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. Marvel reserves rights to their copyrighted material, but all characters and situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer.

Notes: In this fic, Erik is mentioned as helping to develop two styles; photoshop and trash polka. The reality: Xoil Loïc is the French creator of photoshop style. Trash polka was developed jointly by German artists Simone Pfaff and Volko Merschky.

* * *

_The boy with the heart on his sleeve_

He sees all kinds of people in his two-person operation. All kinds. Hands down, Raven gets all the flakes. She gets the ones she works with several times in a month to design exactly what they want, who then drop off the face of the earth once they've given her the initial deposit of one hundred dollars. They then take her designs to artists that are little more than scratchers. She also ends up with people that want her to work with whatever is currently en vogue and will likely be regretted and lasered off years later.

Caveat: Raven also ends up with the most interesting people on her bench or just hanging out in their small hardwood floor studio and gallery. Professors, housewives, and musicians press their flesh to her bench or just run their jaws. She is the most interesting and vexing apprentice he never wanted to have, but she's probably the only reason he's succeeded running his own studio.

In contrast, Erik's clientele are a curious mixture of rich hipsters, suspected criminals, and devoted international collectors. His attitude is often bad for business; only people that like his hard regard, sarcasm, and no-nonsense approach to his art come to him.

"I'm getting it," Raven laughs, picking up her cell phone. She has a copy of _Inked_ in front of her, open to an advert for UV ink. "I'm getting it and then I'm going to have you do 'tramp' in Helvetica, all caps, across the top of my ass, in the style of a rubber stamp. It will be completely invisible except when I go dancing in tacky bars with black lights."

"The perfect habitat for a tacky tattoo," Erik snorts. He's amused despite himself. He decides it's as good a time as any to drop a bomb on her. "Once you've got the schedule sorted, I want you to finish the planning for your journeyman tattoo."

Raven spins around on her work stool, frozen in mid-dial. Her pretty mouth is open and working in shock. "Erik. Are you serious?"

He nods, continues reassembling one of his tattoo guns. He has an obsession for tinkering with his guns. Raven is one of the only people he has ever met that lets him test his modified needles on her. He could test them on pigskin, but he doesn't like even coming into contact with them. His mother would be proud of that, at least.

"Have you decided placement?" she asks, eyes wide. She drops her phone onto the magazine.

Erik snorts softly as he works. "I have plenty of skin open. Up to you to place it somewhere that will work with the natural lines of bone and muscle. When I'm done here I'll strip down so you can get a better idea."

Raven grins and begins to prepare for a snarky comment, when the first floor door to the second floor studio opens. A rain-scented gust comes up the stairs, through their open door, and into the gallery space. Raven's sitting by the benches, which aren't visible from the gallery space that doubles as a waiting room, but Erik's leaning against the cabinet and has a straight view to the longish hallway.

A man comes in behind the breeze which flutters the navy _noren_ in the doorway between the gallery and work area. He isn't of substantial height. He has the look of recent travel; his smart wool suit is a little rumpled at knees and elbows and there's a bit of ginger shadow about his jaw. A casually expensive messenger bag is slung across his body. His eyes are bits of sharp blue beneath expressive, neatly groomed eyebrows.

For a moment, Erik thinks he's the journalist they're expecting tomorrow for an interview and photoshoot, but the suit is too fitted and he doesn't really look like an Angel Salvadore. Plus, the shoot will be casual, so the idea is thrown out. If he's there for a consultation, Erik thinks he wouldn't mind fitting him in.

A smile comes easily to the man's lips and eyes. Erik finds himself intrigued; the man has seen his penetrating glower and hasn't shrunk back in the slightest. He asks in a standard English accent, "Excuse me, is Raven in?"

Raven always gets the flakes, but she gets the most interesting people, too. There's something about the man that makes Erik feel annoyed that he isn't there for him.

Erik nods, and turns back to Raven who is preoccupied with her phone. "One of yours."

Huffing at the interruption, Raven sets her phone and magazine aside, murmuring about the schedule being clear for two more hours. She sighs, sweeps her golden hair from her blue-inked shoulders and heads through the _noren_ that separates the work area from the gallery.

The sudden shriek of delight is unexpected. Erik's hands are steady though; he doesn't drop or mishandle his gun. His hands don't even twitch. His eyes though, narrow as he returns his gaze to the man Raven suddenly attacks.

Raven's propensity for throwing herself at people is one of the many reasons she has so many clients. It is also how she ends up with all the flakes. But, this man is the only person Erik's ever seen catch and then swing Raven around in a circle. Their breathless laughter is a curious thing in the stillness of his studio.

"Oh my God," Raven is exclaiming, her voice shrill with joy. "What are you doing here, Charles? Did you just get off a plane?"

Charles sets Raven down with a laugh. "I'm in town for a genetics conference. And yes, I just arrived. Perfectly astute of you, darling."

Erik stares at the happy couple. He's seen pictures of Raven's boyfriend, so he's not certain who this man is. She's mentioned a brother that works as a professor, but her visitor looks nothing at all like her. Erik picks up a bottle of alcohol and starts spraying the gun down.

"You have amazing timing," she laughs, takes Charles' hand possessively and gestures to Erik. "Erik was just telling me I'm ready to do my journeyman tattoo!"

The smile never leaves Charles' eyes. "So you're Erik. I can't tell you how pleased I am that you took my sister in under your wing."

One of Erik's broad shoulders twitches in a shrug, but he doesn't say anything. At least the mystery is solved; this is the older brother after all. He sets the gun aside and walks over to the _noren_-covered door way. He pushes the linen aside to join the two of them despite his inclination to stay away.

Charles removes his hand from Raven's grip and offers it to Erik, seeming unperturbed by the glower, height, and profession that intimidates many. For a moment, Erik stares at the appendage, but then he takes and shakes it once. Firmly. Charles is not put off; his grip is excellent with nothing to prove. "Erik Lehnsherr."

"Charles Xavier," Raven's brother greets.

"_Professor_ Charles Xavier," Raven laughs, "Please meet Erik 'Magneto' Lehnsherr."

"Magneto?" Charles asks, head tilting to the side in inquisitiveness. "How did you fall into a nickname like that?"

Erik shrugs, disinclined to answer when he knows Raven will do it for him. She does not, of course, disappoint.

"Years ago, Erik was at a huge convention in Florida," she smirks, switching to hold Erik's arm instead as she speaks to Charles. "There was a crazy lightning storm and a bank of transformers was right next to his room. They ended up _exploding_ and that somehow killed all his batteries and the hotel's electricity. So he jury rigged a treadle-run magneto to run his equipment. Anyway, it was a huge convention and the story got around."

"An EMP," Charles smiles and Erik wonders if that's the only expression Raven's brother is capable of. "That's interesting! How did you manage?"

Raven's hands bob up then down with Erik's arm when he shrugs. "I'm good with my hands."

Raven nods emphatically and, he thinks, winks at her brother. "He has the steadiest hands in the business. He even does pin-striping on the side."

Charles nods in interest, though Erik doubts he even knows what pin-striping is. "So, then, what is this milestone? This journeyman tattoo?"

Raven grins wildly and runs to the _noren_. "Let me get my tablet and I'll show you!"

Erik doesn't want to explain, so he offers, "What kind of coffee do you drink?"

"I don't?" Charles laughs softly. "Do you have tea?"

Erik continues to stare; he can't comprehend people that don't drink coffee. However, he isn't going to let that get in the way of him escaping the two of them for a few minutes. "Tea, then."

He turns on one bare foot and heads for his boots and Raven's colorful umbrella. He shuts the door behind him on the way out.

...

Charles is still staring at the door when Raven comes back into the room with her tablet and stylus. She gestures toward the sturdy claw-foot couch against one of the small gallery's walls. "Where'd Erik go?"

Charles walks over and drops down on one of the plush red cushions. The couch is a nicely refurbished piece with a dark wood frame and firm cushions. He wonders how much of a dent the antique made in the shop's budget or if Raven or Erik ever nap on it. Raven swiftly joins him, all but sits on top of him. They've always been very tactile siblings. "He said something about coffee."

She raises an eyebrow in interest. "That's usually my job. Do you want anything to eat? We've got a minifridge with some basic groceries. Erik keeps it full of fruit and vegetables. I'm pretty sure there's hummus in there."

Charles shakes his head. He's hungry, but he's more concerned with Erik's silent animosity. "He's… different. Is he always so recalcitrant or did I break some sort of tattoo shop etiquette?"

"Oh," Raven soothes, "Erik's got a thing about people and surprises. I'm like his first line of defense. New people frustrate and drain him until he gets used to them."

"Is he the same with customers?" Charles wonders. He can't see how anyone can maintain a business with so little in the way of customer service skills. Then again, tattooing has a tough image, so maybe treating people like animate canvases is acceptable.

Raven shakes her head and looks down at her tablet. She wipes the smudges off with the lacy hem of her spaghetti strap top and starts going through her art files. "No, he's better. He knows what to expect from them. Control issues. He's very hard to get to know."

"And he's letting you do a journeyman tattoo?" Charles asks, trying to turn the subject back to Raven who he hasn't seen in well over a year. "You must have really improved in the last… What? Two and years?"

"Hell yes, I have," Raven enthuses. "Erik told me to start designing two or three months ago. Since I'm putting it on him, I've had to think a lot about it. I mean, I'd put thought into anyone's tattoo, but he took me in when nobody else would and he's helped me grow as an artist this whole time."

"I tried to take you in," Charles reminds archly, "but you refused."

"Right, and where would that have stopped?" She opens the file in question. "The thing is, I may have to tweak it, because I never really decided where to put it on him."

The file Raven opens is nothing like what Charles has come to expect from tattoos. The image looks like she's scanned in a watercolor painting. There are layers of color and little to no black work.

There's a cloudy spiral of mist emanating from a human heart; within the loose end of the tightly coiled mist is the impression of a dragon's upper body. It has two heads. One head has a broken unicorn horn plunged into an eye and is either screaming or roaring. The other has smoke coming from its nose that mingles with the mist until it is hard to determine where the mist from the heart ends and the smoke begins. He's left with the impression that either the heart has summoned the dragon or the dragon has summoned the heart.

It's nothing like Raven's normal graphic work. It's gorgeous and intensely intimate. When he looks at the piece, he sees beauty, skill, and something of what she sees in her mentor's essence. Of course, the first thing he noticed was the man's beauty: his looks wouldn't be unusual in fashion or entertainment, but are striking in the bearded landscape of Portland, Oregon. Normally looks are enough to catch Charles' interest, but Raven's piece, her impression of him, fleshes him out and reveals him in a way that's hard for Charles to witness.

"The shape would work best on his chest and upper arm, but that's a lot of real estate," Raven sighs, oblivious to Charles' discomfit. "I have to be careful how much space I take. He's only thirty-three; there's plenty of time for him to get more ink."

Charles can only stare at the work. She's achieved something strange and beautiful that makes his heart clench. "Raven, this looks nothing like your normal style."

She nods and leans further into him. "It was something I did when Erik was working. Sometimes, if our clients don't mind, we burn incense and it kind of inspired the whole thing. Erik relaxes with incense. Maybe because he meditates in the backroom with it before he starts work every morning."

Pensively, Raven taps the stylus against the tablet. "He may not like this, though. I may have put too much of him into it."

"Dragons and unicorns are heavy symbolism," Charles muses, wrapping his arm around her blue shoulders. He doesn't really want to admit how emotive her vision is, so he looks for another way to critique it. "Are you sure about using them? They're very cliché."

"They are heavy and they are cliché," Raven agrees. "But I don't think they deserve to be cliché. Why should I deny Erik symbols that work for him, just because millions of people have taken them as talismans or because they're cool? It would be like not going by Charles because there are millions of Charleses in the world."

...

Erik hears Raven's shrieks of laughter and her brother's answering low chuckle as he's coming up the stairs. He has a paper carrier with four cups, a bag of muffins clutched in his teeth, and is trying to open the studio's door with the hand clutching Raven's folded and wet umbrella. He manages after a couple tries and drops the umbrella into the ceramic vase he inherited with the space. The umbrella's metal tip rings against the bottom like a chime.

He uses the heel of one boot to pull the other off, the second boot heel he secures with his toes. Though he prefers the feel of hardwood paneling to wool he doesn't remove his socks. Without looking at the siblings on his dumpster-sourced couch, Erik goes straight to the gallery space's expansive factory windowsill and sets the bag of muffins and carrier of drinks down together.

He sets Raven's short, two-shot, soy cappuccino on the left, his tall Americano to the right, and Charles' Assam in the middle. The fourth cup has a little almond milk for the tea, as the coffee shop is vegan. All three muffins are vegan, of course, and allergen-free since he never bothered to ask Raven if Charles has any allergies. Neither he nor Raven are vegan, but they both like the coffee shop's food and the owners. He and Raven even collaborated on the design for the owners' wedding band tattoos.

He's aware Raven is saying something to him, but Erik simply takes the muffins out and flattens the paper bag so he can set them on top. If she's saying something important, she'll repeat it. Steam and the scent of coffee rises up toward the ceiling when he removes the lid from his Americano. The steam fogs the window until he picks up the paper cup and places it to his lips. He sips the hot coffee and he stares out at the rain between their window and the next building.

Erik likes rain; it soothes his frequent agitation. It is the meditation of clouds. Sometimes he thinks about moving shop to Seattle, but he's certain it would cause Raven and her researcher boyfriend problems. Portland's roughly nine months of drizzle are good enough for now.

"Which one's mine?" Raven asks as she draws up beside.

"The one with foam," Erik replies dryly. He points to the smaller cup, "Almond milk for the tea."

Raven turns around and waves her brother over. When he steps between them, Erik realizes he should have switched the drinks, because now he's shoulder-to-bicep with a professor. He takes it like a champ.

"Thank you for the tea," Charles smiles pouring the milk into his cup. "The milk and… the muffin?"

Erik hears the question in his voice and shrugs. "I'm not eating two."

"Raven was just showing me her updated portfolio," Charles continues. "I think she may have improved more in the past two years with you than in the years she spent in art school."

"She's not the school type," Erik replies and expounds despite himself. "Art school is a place for the privileged to spend enormous amounts of money to learn to sound intelligent, inflate egos, and expound on the existential crisis of lint caught on daguerreotypes. Raven's the type to thrive in a realistic work environment where her work is graded by earnings and a growing client base."

"She already knew how to do those bourgeois things anyway," Charles chuckles. His smile, though, has an extra edge of humor that indicates a possible hit. Erik's statement wasn't designed to inflict harm, but he knew as he said it there would likely be collateral damage.

Charles takes a sip of his tea and turns to Raven to change the subject. "It's a tragedy you've been here two years and I'm only now meeting Erik."

Raven snorts inelegantly. Erik turns to look at her past Charles. "Right. You hardly talked to me for a year after I dropped out. You only warmed up to any of this after you lost our bet six months ago."

"Bet?" Erik asks before he can stop himself. He doesn't really want to know the answer to his question. Next to him Charles shifts uncomfortably and takes a long shielding drink of his tea.

"One year," Raven smiles and she is only slightly more triumphant than bitter, "without touching my trust fund. If he won, I'd give up tattooing. If I won, he'd get a tattoo."

"You're here to get a tattoo," Erik states, his tonelessness a possible precursor to disgust and, of course, anger. It's one thing to make bets about permanently marking one's body, but quite another to threaten a person's happiness; especially when that somebody is as important to him, and his business, as Raven.

Charles has no idea the fortuitousness of his head shake and soft denial. "No, I'm in Portland for a conference. I'm in this studio to see my sister and to appeal to her good sense. Losing a bet is a terrible reason to get a tattoo."

"True." Raven's bitterness makes an apt reappearance. "Too bad. We've talked about this, Charles; you can't honor only the bets that you win. That's not how it works."

Erik turns to look at Raven for a moment. She gives his observation a quizzical look in reply and watches as he steps back to take a closer look at her brother.

Professor Xavier is arrogant, that much is obvious to anyone that looks at him. He has style; the well-cut suit and the rakish mop of his hair say that just as much as the careless adoption of a messenger bag rather than a laptop case. There's a flair for the old-fashioned, too: his surprisingly broad hands have fingers with writers' calluses and ink stains that speak of fountain pens.

"It appears you are no stranger to ink, Dr. Xavier." While the siblings look on in different shades of wonder, Erik takes Charles' right hand and lifts it before him for closer scrutiny. Overall, his hand is soft, warm where Raven's is cool, and in keeping with his initial handshake with its strength. Too bad it is attached to an asshole; Erik likes capable hands. "Back when I was nothing more than a scratcher practicing on drunks, I'd get people that lost bets all the time."

"That's the sort of life I was hoping to spare her," Charles replies and though he's probably trying not to sound like a condescending douche bag, he does anyway.

Raven makes a choking noise and kicks Charles' leather shoe; it leaves an obvious scuff. There's no subtlety to her demand that he shut the fuck up.

There's an audible click from Erik's sharply cut jaw as his chin juts in an angry sort of amusement. His grip on Charles' hand turns hard, just shy of painful, and willfully uncomfortable. "Raven doesn't need anyone to save her, but I'll spare her the indignity of doing art for a bet. I'll do it."

He releases Charles' hand and takes his coffee over to the schedule book that sits on the large open space in the railroad tie wall. He picks it up and swivels back to the siblings; holding the book illustratively. "We cleared Friday midafternoon for Sentimental Ink. Go ahead and pencil the professor in for consultation afterwards. Charge my normal rates."

The concussion of the book hitting the surface echoes fatalistically about the loft space, but Erik's feet make no noise on the floor as he walks out.

...

Charles has time to return to his hotel for a nap, a bite to eat, and to freshen up before taking a cab to Portabello Tratoria in Hosford-Abernethy to meet Raven for drinks. Raven frequents the place for the marvelously talented bartender, rather than the dodgy service or vegetarian fare. She says even her acerbic employer goes there just for the drinks.

He's not sure what to make of Erik other than his immediate attraction to Erik's physical form. He's handsome of face, a minimalistic symphony in motion. But while Charles is grateful to him for employing Raven, he's irritated that Erik has enabled the foolishness of her chosen profession. Fine art is where Charles envisioned Raven, with groundbreaking works in the Whitney and beyond. Places tattooing will never take her.

Despite Erik's good looks, he's predisposed not to like Raven's mentor. So there shouldn't be a conflict of interests, especially with the way the bastard challenged Charles' understanding of her. He's known Raven longer than anyone; Erik's only known her, what, two years? His presumption is galling.

And yet, something in Raven's struggling dragon image seems tattooed on the underside of Charles' eyelids even before her ink has been worked into Erik's skin. When he closes his eyes in the cab he can still see the dragon through smoke and mist.

When Charles walks in from the light rain, he sees Raven at the bar with her boyfriend, Hank. He studies the young man's profile and body language on the way over. The light flush on his cheeks from whatever he's drinking suggests they've been here for about half an hour.

Silently, Charles applauds Raven's guile; she's obviously been feeding him liquid courage before the coming introduction with her older brother. With both their parents are dead, Charles is the one Hank has to impress. But even if their parents were still alive, Charles would still consider himself the arbiter of Raven's relationships.

Even from a distance, Charles can see the young man's thick-framed, black glasses aren't an attempt at hipsterish irony, but the honest mark of a socially awkward researcher.

Raven sees Charles and pushes back her chair to meet him. She's not surprised this time, of course, but she's no less enthusiastic and squeals his name in joy. She runs and throws herself bodily at him. Charles barely has enough time to throw his arms out wide before Raven tackles him. She nearly knocks him down in her enthusiastic embrace.

Stumbling back, arms wrapped around her, Charles laughs and kisses her round cheek, one of the few places on her body that doesn't carry the mark of her profession. They hold each other, the sides of their heads pressed together in mutual affection.

"I swear," he murmurs next to her ear, "I will never go so long without seeing you. Not ever again. I've been an ass."

Her lips press firmly against his cheek in return. "You've always been an ass, Charles, but don't you dare. And be nice to Hank or I will have Erik tattoo 'Pretty Pretty Princess' on your forehead."

"Challenge accepted," he whispers back. He releases her lingeringly, one hand slow to release its hold on her inside elbow.

Hank is smiling nervously at them when they part, but has the social grace to vacate his chair and greet Charles with an outstretched hand. "Hi, I'm Hank. Raven's told me a lot about you."

"That's unfortunate," Charles grins. He takes Hank's hand and shakes it firmly. Hank's grip is soft, but he uses his full hand and isn't too quick to let go. "I hope you like me better than her employer did."

Hank flushes a little darker; his smile becomes apologetic. "Oh, yeah, Raven says Erik can be difficult. I haven't met him yet; she says she's shielding me until I'm stronger."

Charles chuckles politely and the three of them move back to the bar, which is crowded, but not unpleasantly so. He notes their drinks: Hank's locally brewed beer is mostly full and Raven's cocktail is watery with melted ice.

Raven manages to get the bartender's attention and order him a rye whiskey. When he makes a face at the order she only laughs. "Charles, you're in North America, drink some local whiskey, you snob you."

Appetizers arrive with Charles' rye; in the interim Charles learns Hank is a post doc at Oregon State University with another PhD dissertation in its final stages. His first doctorate is in physics and his second is in chemical engineering. His education and research are remarkable, but most of the small talk is dry and wholly uninteresting. By Charles' second drink, he steers Hank into talking about his research and Hank finally, thankfully, has his full attention.

By his third drink, Hank admits quite bashfully that he's being wooed by several research and development firms, but he's not sure he wants to leave academia.

Charles can relate. "Even though academia is highly political and competitive, I've found many people thrive under those conditions. Personally, I tend to enjoy the petty mind games among my rivals."

Hank frowns dramatically at the mouth of his bottle. It takes him a moment to reply and when he does he's clearly nervous, barely making eye contact. "Actually, that's the one thing I hate about the university. I don't mind competition, but I'd prefer a friendlier environment. I mean, I like the freedom to research and publish on whatever I want, but in a private lab there's more solidarity of purpose."

"In a private lab you lose the impetus to publish," Charles snorts dismissively, "and that's the beginning of the slow death of one's will which only ends in a grave of complacency. Never leave academia, Hank, you'll regret it."

"I don't know about that," Hank murmurs, staring doggedly at his beer. He picks gently at the bottle's paper label. "I like publishing; it's the best way to get dissenting views."

"Don't listen to Charles," Raven smiles and snakes her arm around Hank's. "He's never been outside academia, so how could he actually know for certain?"

A bit of the former light returns to Hank's eyes as he looks at Raven. Charles feels ill witnessing how besotted Hank is.

"So, Hank," Charles finally says to break the two out of their soul-gazing. "I still haven't heard how you two met? Raven says it was at a coffee shop."

"Oh, yes, we did! In Corvallis." If the light in Hank's eyes had dimmed before, it positively lights up his face as he touches on the memory. "She was in line right in front of me ordering a double-shot, short cappuccino with whole milk. I was staring at her awkwardly while she ordered. Then, when she went to pay for her coffee, she was a quarter short. So I gave her my quarter."

A bright peal of laugh rings from Raven, "You did not give me that quarter! You practically threw it at the barista! But then _he_ was exactly a quarter short on _his_ order. It was immediately obvious he fancied me."

Charles shakes his head at Raven's grin and Hank's flush, which is now even darker from embarrassment. "I'll remember that tactic next time I'm in queue with somebody I fancy."

Still flushing with embarrassment, Hank slips from his seat. He gestures awkwardly toward the bathrooms, head ducked. "I'll be right back."

Hank's gate is a little unsteady as he walks away. As soon as he's out of earshot, which is quickly considering the noise level, Charles turns to Raven with a carefully neutral expression. Raven is staring back, her brown eyes sardonic.

"I can't wait to hear what you think about Hank," she drawls.

"I like him," Charles says, raising one eyebrow. "In fact, I think your union would yield highly superior little human beings. His brains, your wit and beauty; perfect."

Raven's chin ducks and she looks at him from under a creased brow. "And now I'm simply _dying_ to hear the caveat."

"Caveat; please don't get married," Charles says, shrugging. "I would hate for my legion of nieces and nephews to inherit that unfortunate anxiety complex of his."

"Charles," Raven says quietly, though her face contorts with outrage. "There you go again, channeling Sharon. I thought when she died I wouldn't have to hear this sort of shit anymore."

Charles blood runs cold with the comparison but he keeps the anger from his face. His reply is swift as it is calm and cool. "If you're so opposed to my channeling Sharon, I don't know why you'd date someone like her. He's a nice enough chap, but I can't entrust you to a man that needs to drink in order to face me. You can do better."

Raven's eyes widen with incredulity, white showing all around her irises. "The beer was my idea! My god, Charles, he dropped everything and drove all the way up here from Corvallis on no notice whatsoever just to meet you!"

"I didn't ask him to," Charles replies nonchalantly. He knows he's being a dick, but now his pride has gotten involved and there's very little he won't sacrifice to that beast.

"He wanted to meet you!" Raven leans forward in challenge. "God, why are you always like this? You know what your problem is? You're so high up on that fucking horse of yours that you've failed to notice it was Dali who painted it."

"My high horse," Charles returns, "gives me an excellent view of the horizon. I'm just telling you what I see from up here."

"You know what?"

"Probably," Charles deadpans. If Raven leans any closer, Charles thinks they'll both go cross-eyed in the attempt to maintain eye contact. He can smell her shampoo and feel the puff of her breath on his face.

"I don't care what you think."

"Which is why you asked me in the first place." Charles shakes his head and leans back with his hands up in mock surrender. "You know, let's be reasonable. I'm only here for a few days and I don't want to spend all my free time arguing with you."

"Right, of course you wouldn't. Because this is about me being irrational, not about you being a patronizing asshole!" For several moments, Raven remains half-standing, bringing menace into his personal space. The tension is palpable, a few patrons even watch them from the sidelines. They make a remarkable pair; Charles in his cardigan and khakis, Raven resplendent in her tank top which shows knots of blue serpent coils on her shoulders.

Finally, Raven shakes her head and subsides, sitting heavily back on her stool. She shakes her head a second time as she drags her purse into her lap and digs around inside. From the depths of her bag she produces a folded piece of paper which she slaps down on the bar next to Charles' third rye.

"These are Erik's rates," she explains. "His going rate is $200 an hour, at a two hour minimum, with the option to buy his original sketch after he's finished the outline."

Charles sighs; he welcomes the change of subject, but not to this. He takes the paper and unfolds it. Hank returns as he scans the text. From the corner of his eye, Charles notes the fond squeeze he gives Raven's hand before sitting down. He chooses to ignore it.

"So you'll be there tomorrow, after your seminar?" Raven asks, her hand turning up to casually trail her fingertips along the underside of Hank's wrist.

"It appears so." He folds the paper and slips it into his back pocket. He wishes he'd never made the bet with Raven, but at least it gave her the impetus she probably needed to be more independent. He wonders how big a two-hour tattoo will be and where the most inconspicuous place to have it is.

"Oh," Hank says, "are you going to tomorrow's photo shoot? Raven's been fretting about it for a week. She thinks Erik's idea of giving an interesting interview is to be confrontational."

There's an understatement if ever Charles has heard one. "He's not much of talker, either."

"No, Hank, Charles is coming in afterwards for a consultation with Erik. And, actually," Raven continues over Hank suddenly choking on his beer, "I have an idea I think the magazine will go for that will save me a lot of Erik-wrangling."

...

It's dark under Erik's eyelids; the barest red is the only indication diffused light is coming into the studio's huge windows. He's breathing slow and deep through his nose and though they don't have any incense burning this afternoon, enough has been burned in the space that the room smells of it still. Entwined with the lingering incense scent is the smell of rain on the reclaimed factory's bricks.

Raven's hands are cool on Erik's warm skin; he likes the sensation. There's always been an underlying animal attraction between them, but it has never developed beyond a physical craving. A craving they consummated one drunken Passover night when he was miserable, she was horny, and both of them were single. It's never happened since and it never will; their working relationship comes first. Still, he likes the sensation of cool hands on his skin as she swabs alcohol across his right pectoral and shoulder.

When Erik opens his eyes, he can see the magazine's photographer shooting away, capturing Erik's serious face and the thoughtful grin on Raven's. There's no need to instruct Raven; she knows what she's doing. He can answer questions and philosophize with the woman writing the story whether his eyes are closed or not.

The magazine is dedicated to the stories behind tattoos rather than the tattoos specifically. All the same, it is de rigeur that all tattoo rags have an artist spotlight and Erik knows the exposure is good for business. She thinks having him shirtless for the photoshoot is good for business. It also might be good for his sex life if the photographer's enthusiasm is anything to go by.

The journeyman tattoo angle was Raven's idea. The magazine has never covered a story like this, so after a quick call to the editor, they ditched their original concept and are now focusing on the mentor-student relationship. Erik was bothered by the change at first, but he's been able to relax into it thanks to Raven.

"So, Erik," the interviewer, Angel, is asking, "the impact of this piece is pretty big for Raven. She's already said it is the most important tattoo of her life as an artist and as your friend. What's the tattoo's impact on you?"

He wants to shrug, but he's conscious of the effect that would have on Raven's sketching. He takes his time to think before making his answer. "In a way, this is a mutual journeyman piece. Raven is stepping over the threshold from apprentice to journeyman in her profession, but I'm doing the same as an instructor. I've never apprenticed someone before and I've never been an apprentice myself."

He smirks and the camera's shutter clicks with abandon. "Also, Raven's getting prime real estate: after this, my chest and my right arm are almost covered."

Angel chuckles at the more practical point of view. "Speaking of being covered; when we got here we were surprised that you had no ink showing at all. Why is that?"

"It's cold," Erik deadpans.

Raven takes her surgical pen from his shoulder and laughs. "People always ask why Erik wears long sleeve shirts. He's a private person and so is his personal gallery."

"Oh, no, this is so perfect, Angel," the photographer suddenly laughs. He's taking several shots of the human heart Raven sketched over Erik's bicep previously.

Angel raises one well-shaped brow. "Okay, what?"

Erik stares straight ahead, past the writer to the unlit incense sticks sitting in their dish on the long cabinet beneath their bookshelves. He thinks he hears the studio door open, but he's sitting on his rolling stool and can't see the entryway.

Raven notes Erik's faraway glance and places her hand on the middle of his chest once more. "What's perfect?"

"You are," the photographer smiles warmly, genuinely tickled. He takes several photos of Raven's hand on Erik's broad chest. "The future answer to why Mr. Lehnsherr always wears shirts that cover his arms is right there. You've put his heart on his sleeve."

"What?" Raven tilts her head and stares at Erik's right arm. His forearm is covered with tattoos from wrist to bicep. The tattoo she's drawing connects the arm work to his upper body, thus completing a sleeve. "Holy shit, I never thought of that. Unintentional brilliance."

"Brilliance runs in the family."

All four turn to Raven's brother who managed to make it in without anyone but Erik the wiser. He had heard the door open, but hadn't expected Charles so soon; not when Raven made it clear that her brother was often woefully late to his personal engagements.

"Raven," Erik says dryly, "aren't you adopted?"

Raven snorts through a comically exaggerated grimace and retracts her pen. "Erik, whoah, down boy." She turns her face to Charles next, giving him a wink and teasing smile. "Not that you're wrong."

Erik watches dispassionately as the two trade conspiratorial smiles. Something about their familiarity irritates him. Everything about Raven's brother irritates him so far; if he were a decent sort of person, he'd look for traits they share in an attempt to keep the peace, but he's long since given up the hope of being a decent person.

Angel also turns her attention from Erik to Charles. "So you're Raven's brother? Do you have any of her work?"

Amusement returns to Erik as awkwardness floods back and forth between the siblings. He says nothing, content to remain quiet and enjoy the ensuing familial crisis.

Both siblings shake their heads and give each other significant looks. It is clear that each one is communicating something different. Raven is looking at Charles when she shakes her head; definitely signaling Charles to keep his mouth shut on the topic. Charles' eyes are on Angel, however, and his headshake likely means that she should interpret his answer as an unquotable 'no'.

Unfortunately, Sentimental Ink is a positive force among countless hipster zines; Angel holds back uncomfortable questions on that topic. "You _are_ Raven's brother, though, right? She doesn't have your accent."

"Oh, yes," Charles smiles at her. "I spent my formative years in England. Our parents adopted Raven when we came back to America."

"Do you like her art?" Angel presses, taking a tack that allows Charles to interpret her question in whatever way is most advantageous for him.

Raven gives Charles another warning look, but he simply winks at her before answering Angel. "I've always loved Raven's art. I haven't always approved of her being a tattooist, but I've always loved her art. And this piece she's doing now, I think, is really indicative of her growth as an artist. It's very courageous and personal. In fact, it might be my favorite."

Though his face doesn't betray his consternation at Charles' words, there's something there that Erik immediately latches onto. Courageous? Personal? His first instinct is to scoff, but then Raven's pen descends again and he turns his attention back to the lines left in its felt-tip wake.

People seldom remark on the personal or sensitive nature of his original concepts. He often executes flawless pieces based on the requests of his clients that garner talk of his eye for detail, his technical prowess, or even his penchant for designing and producing his unique tattoo needles. Those pieces receive emotional reviews, but the pieces he does for collectors are usually wholly his own design and those, while praised across the tattoo world, have never once been referred to as personal or courageous.

More often than not it's Raven's work that's called personal, sensitive even. He used to think it was because people always look at her in light of her gender, but now he wonders. Is the tattoo she's designed for him courageous of her? Technically, it is her most ambitious design. It will take several layers for her to complete and a steady hand for all the delicate shading. She'll be at it for multiple hours over many days, depending on how quickly his skin heals.

But courageous? Personal? He doesn't see it. Two dragons coming out of a heart shrouded in spiraling smoke doesn't seem personal at all. Courageous, he decides he can grant; dragons are heavy subject matter. They're so cliché that he never envisioned he would ever wear one. Additionally, it's a piece that could easily go wrong though she modified it exactingly to work with his musculature before she'd left the night previous.

Erik remains quiet, no doubt nobody find his silence unusual; he's not a talker. But then Raven's pressing him back, to roll his stool over to her work bench and he realizes he hasn't been paying attention at all. Angel and Raven's brother are chatting away and the Sentimental Ink photographer is changing lenses on his camera.

Raven doesn't give any indication that he's zoned out for very long; she gives him his space both figuratively and physically. But one glance at her workspace tells him he zoned out for a minute or so. She has everything assembled, from a box of disposable gloves, to spray bottles of alcohol and hospital grade germicide, to ink cups, and petroleum jelly.

She looks to him for approval after wiping her gun down with alcohol for the third time. He reaches over for a pair of gloves, pulls them on and spritzes his chest, shoulder, and bicep with alcohol then the hospital-grade anti-bacterial spray. He shaved the areas going under her needle before the Sentimental Ink people showed up.

"Okay, boss," she says, smiling slightly, but with a crease in her brow. "Can I go?"

He looks up, finds it strange to look up when he normally towers over her, and locks his gaze with hers. "Unless you want to wait another three months, I think you should get started."

"Okay, then," she breathes. She hooks her ankle around her stool and pulls it close. Once seated she turns the gun on.

The equipment's sudden whine alerts the photog and the other two, but Raven is fixed on Erik and Erik is fixed on her. "You're ready for this, Raven."

The crease in Raven's brow smoothes. "I promise this will be the best piece I've ever done."

Erik snorts lightly. "I won't hold you to that. Just don't fuck it up."

His snark releases some of her anxiety, enough for her to come back with, "I'm not worried; you usually keep 'em covered up anyway."

The first pass is always the cruelest, but Erik knows to expect that. A sheet of pain shrouds his mind once the needles start perforating his skin, stabbing ink underneath the epidermis to the deeper dermis layer. He's had enough work done to have a rough idea of when the endorphins will kick in and the pain begin to lessen, but he doesn't bother to hide his initial scowl. He takes his mind from it by watching Raven's hands as she marks him and wipes away excess ink and blood with the paper towels gripped in her other hand.

"That looks intense," somebody says above the gun's buzz. It takes Erik a moment to register that the voice belongs to Raven's brother. He glances at Charles, ponders a rejoinder, but opts to stay silent and let other people fill him in. Other people will. They like that; like filling the air with meaningless noise. He half wishes Raven was doing the tattoo on his head so he wouldn't have to listen.

"The first minute or so is pretty painful," Angel supplies. "Then you adjust to it and it isn't as bad. Raven's doing the outline right now, which is the most painful part."

Charles swallows in clear dismay which makes Erik smile just a bit. He considers playing the pain up a bit, just to fuck with him in preparation for his coming work. In the end he doesn't, but he doesn't listen to Angel conducting Tattooing 101, either. He watches Raven work, grits his teeth in pain when the needle rattles over his clavicle, again when it hits different parts of his shoulder joint, and ponders the design once again.

Vaguely, he's aware of the photog shooting; this time he hasn't bothered to strike up any conversation. The gun buzzes away and the camera whirs. All backdrop to Erik's questioning; why is this design personal? What makes a two-headed dragon, one with an eye put out, personal? It isn't something he and Raven have talked about, though she said it suited him.

Then a wave of chill flows over him; it displaces the pain but is far less welcome. A two-headed dragon could represent two sides of his personality. Since it seems to emanate from the human heart, it is likely something to do with Raven's perception of his true nature. Erik swallows and stares through the ink, blood, and Vaseline at the sketch. One head is destructive; a unicorn horn, maybe representing truth, is imbedded in that head's eye. The other head is fierce, it has no blood on its claws, so Erik supposes it must be ready to attack or defend.

Erik has a lot of ink, that isn't to say he's covered in tattoos. Most of his work covers his left leg from foot to hip; some of these are his own doing or collaborations with other artists. The ones on his chest and arm are works from artists he respects. None of them are personal imagery as far as he knows; some are abstract, others graphic. His favorites are the collaborations that helped bring photoshop and trash polka onto the scene.

His tattoos say volumes about him as an artist and as a developer of a subculture's art movement, but they don't say he's a man who is constantly struggling with his own nature. They don't reveal him as a person, but they all necessarily expose him as a violator of Halakha, if not an apostate.

Erik isn't sure what he's feeling; when emotions get complicated he's often at a loss. What he feels, looking at the tattoo taking shape, is something uncomfortable and powerful. Something he doesn't understand.

"Stop."

Raven stops. She looks just as surprised as Erik that the word came from his mouth. Erik finds that he has more words where that came from.

"Stop shooting," he says.

Raven's face clouds with uncertainty. The photographer puts down his camera and flashes a confused look over at Angel. Erik begins to stand.

"Do you need a break?" Angel asks, watching Erik as he finishes the motion of getting to his feet. Beside her, Raven's brother looks on, a crease at his brow.

Erik doesn't look at them directly; just collects the view in his peripheral vision. He takes off the surgical gloves from earlier and discards them appropriately in the haz mat bin, turns and walks into the backroom without a word. In his wake he hears Raven say, "Why don't you two go get lunch downstairs? I'll let you know what's up in a few."

The backroom is spartanly furnished. It is lit by another of the big factory windows that allows indirect light in from the back alley. The hardwood in the room is scarred and half-covered with a large secondhand Persian rug. Erik likes sitting on it when he meditates. The weave feels good under his feet as he walks across the rug to lean, forehead buffered by his left forearm, against the wall. From the other room he hears low voices, but he doesn't try to understand what anyone is saying.

He breathes.

Erik remains unmoving when Raven walks in. She joins him, leans back-first against the same wall. She listens to him breathe in through his nose for a few moments before asking, "Hey, what just happened?"

The problem with times like these is that he doesn't have anyone that can explain things to Raven for him. He can decide against speaking as he usually does, but there's nobody to make the noises that fill up empty spaces he doesn't want to. She can, and may, wait him out.

"I don't know how to explain." It's the truth, at least. "Started to feel strange."

Raven settles a gentle hand on his back. "Did you eat before we started?"

"That's basic intelligence," Erik snorts. He hadn't.

"So you lack basic intelligence?" Erik's sigh is answer enough to that question, but Raven doesn't drop the subject. "After we get your blood sugar up, let's start again. Fifteen minutes on, fifteen off."

He lifts his head from his forearm just to shake it. "No, we can do the whole outline today and start shading, but I want the shop empty. No bystanders, Raven."

"But you have to do the consultation with Charles," Raven protests.

"Obviously we'll start again after the consultation," Erik says, turning around so Raven's hand slips from his back. "That shouldn't take long."

"You obviously don't know my brother." Raven scoffs. "But okay. What do you want me to tell the magazine people?"

"Tell them something they'll like," Erik retorts, anger beginning to creep in to vanquish the feelings he can't understand. "Tell them the tattoo was too personal or that I felt exposed."

Raven's gaze drops to the smears of ink and blood suspended within the Vaseline. She opens her mouth to say something only to change her mind; no words are given breath. Her lips close on silence, but her eyes are full of things he doesn't really understand. With a brief nod she returns to the studio. He appreciates having his space.

* * *

_This story might upload a little unpredictably. I'm hoping it will be only three chapters, but everything always takes longer than what it takes with me._


	2. It's nothing personal

_Note: I hope this will only be four chapters, but it might be five. Everything always takes longer than it takes for me. _

_Also, Artemis: Thank you! My style might be different because I'm more given to writing action/horror than drama. ;D I hope you continue to enjoy Charles; I like writing him as an understanding person, yet without feeling he is obligated by his understanding._

_Lastly, if you can't visualize Raven's chimera tattoo, I have a sketch linked for it on my profile page._

* * *

_ It's nothing personal_

Charles knows he's screwing up by cutting out early from the opening day of the conference with nothing more than a few promises of catching drinks that evening. However, his prominence in the field will cover the broken expectations of his colleagues and, as he said to Hank the night previous, he'll enjoy any barbs his rivals sling. He has explained his sister is in town and she is more precious to him than they. And she is, there's no lie to that, but there's also the issue of the tattoo he still wants to clear up.

During his cab ride through the latest round of chilly Portland drizzle, Charles tries to think of a plan that will release from the fateful bet they'd made. Over the last six months he and Raven have occasionally talked on the phone, chatted on Skype, or sniped at each other on various social networks. Beyond the text-less email that accompanied the screenshot proving her trust fund's one-year dormancy, they've spoken very little about Charles getting a tattoo. She occasionally asks him what he wants or sends him sketches of her ideas (mostly in the theme of DNA helixes), but Charles never replies to those. He still thinks he has a chance to get out of it.

There is a break in the rain when his cab finally arrives at the reclaimed factory building. Charles is in a good mood with the energy he always gets from meeting brilliant people like himself and bouncing ideas off them. The good timing of the cab in regards to the weather improves his mood even more. Charles pays the driver, tips generously, and dashes across the wet pavement, leaping puddles with a grin. Pulling the bottom level door open, he takes the stairs up to the studio two at a time. He's early for once and eager to put this whole tattoo business behind him.

The closed sign on the opposite side of the door's leaded glass window reminds him the people from the tattoo magazine might be there still. The door isn't locked, so he casually disregards the sign and let's himself in.

As it did the first time he walked in, the faint smell of incense in the well-lit space strikes him as oddly ascetic. Raven mentioned incense mellowing Erik out, but he hardly sees the man as a religious sort. Austere, perhaps, but not a believer. He loses the thought; there's somebody unfamiliar speaking with Raven as he comes down the hall to the gallery space, but only catches the last bit about a heart on somebody's sleeve. Then he hears Raven loud and clear.

"Holy shit, I never thought of that. Unintentional brilliance."

"Brilliance runs in the family," Charles interjects by way of introducing himself. He pushes the short, Asian-inspired curtains in the doorway aside and enters the studio space.

A quick glance reveals his sister standing in front of Erik, her hand splayed on the tattooed half of his broad chest. She's standing over him with a pen as he sits on a rolling Craftsman-branded stool. Erik doesn't look surprised to see him the way the others do; he looks up from where he's seated and fixes Charles with a baleful glance.

"Raven," Erik says dryly, "aren't you adopted?"

_Touché_, Charles thinks. Erik might be a presumptuous, tattooed asshole, but he possesses the sort of cutting wit Charles appreciates.

"Erik, whoah, down boy," Raven snorts. She gives Charles a familiar teasing wink and smile combination that says she knows he approves of Erik's dry humor. "Not that you're wrong."

"So you're Raven's brother? Do you have any of her work?"

The woman speaking to Charles is lovely. He's not sure if she's black or Latina with her dark skin and straight black hair. Maybe both? Running down her arms, beneath her blouse's open sleeves, are delicate black lines; a detailed replica of insect wings from a scientific diagram. Her eyes are a rich brown like the darkest bands of tiger's eye crystal. He begins to wonder if she's single, but is diverted back on topic by the sheer awkwardness answering her question poses.

It's no surprise Raven is giving him a warning look before he's even opened his mouth. He's not sure how to answer or, if he did, whether it would be on the record or not, so he turns to the interviewer with his most charming smile and shakes his head. That, at least, is unquotable.

"You _are _Raven's brother, though, right? She doesn't have your accent."

"Oh, yes," Charles returns. That, at least is safe territory. "I spent my formative years in England. Our parents adopted Raven when we came back to America."

"Do you like her art?" the interviewer asks. Charles wants to seize her slim, brown hands and kiss them; this new question is much easier to answer. He can, in fact, answer in such a way that will satisfy all parties present.

Raven expression remains wary. He can't really blame her, not with the way he's tried to get her to give up this art form, but he has no intention of sabotaging an interview. Not when he needs her to release him from the bet.

Charles winks at Raven and starts into glowing commentary. "I've always loved Raven's art. I haven't always approved of her being a tattooist, but I've always loved her art. And this piece she's doing now, I think, is really indicative of her growth as an artist. It's very courageous and personal. In fact, it might be my favorite."

From Erik there's a sudden flicker of interest that's impossible to read more into and none of the expected snark. Charles notes the reaction and wonders if, perhaps, he's susceptible to compliments. But then Erik's eyes glaze over in the arrested glance of those that have just drifted very far away. It's curious, but Angel is more important.

Chatting comes easily to Charles and, it becomes apparent, Angel as well. Her priorities are clear, though; she keeps them on topic about Raven and gathers details of their background. Raven continues to spare him a few backwards glances as she prepares her work station. The looks eventually become fond, even trusting, even soft. Charles' heart wells up in response; he has missed his little sister trusting in him. So he continues chatting with the lovely Ms. Salvadore and paints the most inspiring portrait of Raven he's able.

He doesn't pause when Angel's dark eyes glance over to Erik and Raven again. He does pause, however, when Erik spritzes his chest and arm with something from a spray bottle. His bare skin is suddenly slick, wet with a sheen of what smells like alcohol. There's a small, and very inappropriate, jolt between Charles' heart and his crotch at the sight.

"What is that?" Charles asks, his voice a little rougher around the edges than he intends.

"Alcohol to sterilize his skin," Angel murmurs, eyes bright with mutual admiration. "Did you get that shot?"

The photographer doesn't reply; he's been caught changing lenses. Fortunately, he brings the camera swiftly to bear and starts shooting in time to catch Erik spraying his skin with a second bottle. "Buy me drinks tonight and I promise to share them."

"I just want to see," Angel chuckles, "not own."

Charles has no way of asking to see the pictures without betraying his inappropriate perving on his sister's mentor. The disappointment spurs him to castigate himself. Coming onto Raven's mentor would not only infuriate her, it would only add fuel to all the patronizing she does concerning his love life. Plus, there's no indication Erik likes men. Not that sexual orientation that has stopped Charles from pursuing; the chase is half the fun.

"This is all very medical, isn't it? It's more like an operation than an art form."

"What did you expect," Angel asks with chiding amusement in her tone. "A tattoo is made by pushing ink under the skin. Skin is the body's most important defender against germs, so doesn't it make sense to keep everything sterile when repeatedly perforating it?"

"Of course," Charles says. "I suppose I've been woefully ignorant of many details of Raven's profession."

Before Charles can say more the high pitch whine of Raven's tattoo machine comes on. His attention is diverted from Angel and fixed between his sister and her mentor. The two exchange a few quiet words. Whatever Erik says must be encouraging; Raven's furrowed brow soon smoothes out and her machine descends to the sketch on Erik's chest.

An intense scowl crosses Erik's face as the needles buzz into his skin and the ink begins to flow. The pain fades quickly from his face, but Charles is still a little shaken; after all, Erik is a man with multiple square inches of tattoo coverage. "That looks intense."

"The first minute or so is pretty painful," Angel supplies. "Then you adjust to it and it isn't as bad. Raven's doing the outline right now which is usually the most painful part."

He hasn't been around Erik much, but he seems like the stoic sort that doesn't give in easily to pain. The notion only makes Charles feel worse about the idea of getting a tattoo himself. He watches Raven work, injecting ink under, and wiping away excess ink and blood off, Erik's skin. Even when the pain fades from Erik's face and the faraway look returns, Charles is caught between awkward feelings of admiration, distaste, and… yes, another hint of desire. The last bit makes him doubt his sanity, because he doesn't feel a strong urge to help Erik, only to wipe the blood away to clear the way for his lips.

Charles swallows reflexively in his discomfort with Erik's pain and his base attraction to the man feeling it. This is a depth of depravity he's visiting for the first time. He tries to focus on what Raven is doing, distracting himself occasionally to ask Angel more questions about the process. The strategy works until Raven suddenly stands up straight, taking her tattoo machine's needle from Erik's skin.

"Stop shooting."

And then Raven is backing away from Erik and Erik is standing up from his stool. The photographer lowers his camera and looks to Angel for instructions.

"Do you need a break?" Angel asks, with clear confusion. Having never seen tattooing in process, Charles has no idea what has gone wrong or if Erik's behavior is strange or not. His expression is as inscrutable as ever.

As usual, Erik doesn't answer anyone's questions. He peels the surgical gloves from his hands and throws them into a haz mat-labelled bin before turning around and walking out of the studio, into a back room.

All eyes turn to Raven. She turns off her machine, looking a little lost for words. The expression only has residence on her face for a few seconds before she shrugs and adopts a lopsided grin. She looks at Angel and holds up one finger. "Hey, why don't you two go get lunch downstairs? I'll let you know what's up in a few."

Without explanation or rush, she sets down her machine and heads to the backroom Erik disappeared into.

Angel calmly gathers her notes and smartphone and begins packing up her black leather bag. The photog seems equally unfazed. He gathers his equipment and stows lenses into their padded cubbies inside his bag. Charles is left with no clues at all concerning what just happened. It couldn't have been normal, but everyone has taken Erik's sudden departure in perfect stride. Obviously, he decides, he will learn nothing by taking a note out of Erik's book by remaining mum.

"What just happened?"

Angel looks up from her bag. "No idea. Erik's known for keeping his cards close to that fine chest of his. You'd do better asking your sister."

"So that," Charles gestures helplessly, his hand rotating loosely at Raven's abandoned work area, "was not normal?"

"Not for most people, but we see a lot of things," the photographer comments. "When we interview somebody that has a meaningful tattoo, like a memorial portrait or something, it gets pretty emotional. Crying isn't unusual."

"Right," Angel snorts, "I bet you anything Erik fucking Lehnsherr is not back there crying. Probably ran out of patience with being watched or interviewed or something. Everyone knows he's got a crazy violent temper."

At Charles' sudden alarmed expression, she adds quickly, "Or, at least, he used to. I'm sure Raven can explain all that. Yeah, look at the time, let's get some of that Portland vegan coffee from the cute boys next door."

Angel and the photographer are on their way down the stairs before Raven comes out of the backroom. She gives Charles an apologetic smile. "That could have gone better."

"What happened?"

She snakes her arm around his waist and tugs him toward the gallery space. They knock the noren aside together and head for the big factory window where they shared tea and coffee just the other afternoon. The drizzle has resumed falling from the low-flying clouds beyond the glass. It would be depressing if he wasn't so used to it

"Erik didn't eat properly," Raven sighs and leans into Charles' chest. Her head is a comforting and grounding weight against his sternum. "Low blood sugar is his official story."

Charles wraps his arms around her waist, anchoring her to him, and presses a kiss to the side of her head. Her hair smells of the same balsam shampoo it always does. "Do I get to be a party to the unofficial story?"

"Mmm," she says, muffling her response in his blazer. "I dunno the official story. Well, maybe. Erik's Jewish, Charles."

At first the information makes no sense; he can't see the correlation between tattooing and Jews. He sorts through his mind quickly looking for a connection, something that can bring the two elements together. When he finds it, he frowns in severe dismay. "Did he have relatives in the war?"

"Yes, not much of his family survived the war," Raven answers, and pulls her face from his chest to settle her sharp chin on his shoulder. "He's atheist but being Jewish is important to him."

"Hence the two-headed dragon?" Charles asks. Like it or not, he still can't exorcise the image haunting his mind. Seeing it being breathed into Erik's skin in clouds of ink and blood has been surreal so far.

"I guess that's one aspect to it." She digs her chin into his shoulder joint in a nod he knows she means to be uncomfortable. Physically, it's definitely uncomfortable, but emotionally it isn't because it is a familiar prank from their childhood. "Huh, you weren't bullshitting Angel. You really do like that design, don't you?"

"I have never liked clichés," Charles admits, his quietude serving to make the commentary feel secretive. "But I think you invoked the truth that lies at the heart of the cliché through the honesty of that piece. Maybe Erik felt exposed."

Raven's chin stills, but her hands seize Charles' biceps and without loosening her grip she shoves away from him with such violence that he feels the thump when her denim-covered ass hits the wall beneath the window sill. Her golden brown eyes are wide, lips parted in shock.

In response, Charles' hands come up and grip her elbows in concern. The touch is meant to support; he always moves to protect Raven. "What's wrong?"

She stares at him in shock and in a little wonder, too. Without releasing her grip, she whispers fiercely, "He was trying to sound like he was bullshitting, but he _said _that."

Charles winces and grimaces as gently as he can. "Sometimes the best deception is the truth spoken in jest."

...

It takes a few minutes of breathing exercises before Erik trusts himself enough to return to the studio. When he does, force of habit brings him straight to Raven's workstation where he wipes the fresh, yet incomplete, outline down with germicidal soap.

He looks for Raven to get her assistance with wrapping his chest and arm, but she has her face shoved in her brother's chest. Erik can be an insensitive jerk, often with the full knowledge of being such, but he won't disturb Raven's bit of peace with her brother. Charles is an ass himself, but he's still her family and despite their ridiculous bet, he doesn't doubt the love they have for one another. It's a little awkward wrapping the piece with plastic wrap by himself, but he makes do.

Sometimes people regret tattoos. When he was starting out, practicing at acquaintances' houses and illegal warehouse parties, he'd done multiple double handfuls of names on people drunk and sober. He'd had repeat customers who paid him to cover names up with banners or tribal designs and then have him tattoo a new name above or on a different arm. Erik thinks people who get such work are idiots; they will be sure to regret it later and have it covered up or lasered off.

But now, Erik looks at the tattoo Raven has worked so hard to illustrate and he thinks he might be one of them. It isn't bad work, far from it, but as it begins to open up to him he wonders how much other people will see of him and why the exposure should bother him. All his other work is more of a timeline or memento of something he was puzzling through. Some of the early work isn't very good; even he has a few cover-ups from his high school days with sewing needles and India ink. He only ever hid those from his family and their shul.

On the surface, all of it is strictly decorative and mostly abstract. Like the horizontal and vertical streaks of black on his torso that range down his side all the way to his knee. Or the red diagonal stripe which intersects the black at his hip. Both look like they were painted there by a house-painter's wide bristle brush. There's the bluebird an acquaintance in Würzburg placed over his outer thigh that appears to fly between two color-block dot matrix screens.

When people see his tattoos they are impressed with the innovation and skill, not the subject matter. Raven's tattoo is completely unlike the others. It not only shows off her developing graphic and watercolor style, of which this piece is likely a cornerstone, it tells a story.

He snags the old, long-sleeved shirt he wore in today and pulls it over his head. The scrape of the threadbare cotton over the plastic wrap is annoying, but nothing he can't bear. This way he doesn't have to look at the tattoo.

Regardless of the private moment Raven and Charles are having, he wants to get things wrapped up with Sentimental Ink. The sooner that's done, the sooner he can get onto Charles' consultation, and the sooner he and Raven can get the outline done; the time for second-guessing is long past. Introspection will get him nowhere. He'll have to make peace with Raven's journeyman tattoo one way or another.

"Did you go talk to the magazine people?" he asks before walking to the opening in the railroad tie wall that often acts as a desk, table, impromptu bar, and bench.

Raven looks over Charles' shoulder and rolls her eyes. "I'll go. I'm going to get you one of Darwin's awesome fake tuna salad sandwiches while I'm there."

"Bring me a receipt," Erik says without any rancor and moves around the wall and through the open doorway. "Or take my wallet."

"Your _leather _wallet is not welcome over there, Erik," she says as she pulls away from Charles. "Why don't you actually use the duct tape one I so thoughtfully made you for your birthday?"

"I'm saving it for when I need to deconstruct it," Erik replies, "to tape your mouth shut."

"I don't know how you still have that wallet if that's what you're going to use it for," Charles suddenly laughs, eyes dazzlingly bright above his smile.

They must be blood-related in some way, Erik thinks, because there is a purity there in the joy Raven and Charles share; a love expressed in teasing and needling each other. Smiles like theirs have gravity or magnetism or something equally dangerous. He finds himself taking several all-too-willing steps forward until he's only an arm's length away from the two.

"So much for sibling loyalty," Raven says in outrage. She promptly gives lie to her protest by kissing Charles' cheek and chirping, "You want anything? Tea? Gluten-free, vegan muffin? Angel-the-interviewer's phone number?"

"No, thank you," he replies, "I can take care of myself."

"Sure you can," she says over her shoulder as she walks down the hallway to the door. "Why don't you show Erik some of my ideas for your tattoo while I'm gone?"

A day before Erik wouldn't have been interested in designs for Charles' tattoo; he would simply want to see Raven's work. Now he wants to see what her designs say about her brother. If she can reveal so much of Erik after only knowing him for a couple years, twenty years of knowing Charles must far more telling.

Charles' smile freezes and slowly melts into a neutral expression. After the sound of the front door closing behind his sister, he crosses his arms over his chest and turns to Erik. He says very carefully, "You're both awfully serious about this tattoo business."

Erik is unimpressed. "It pays the bills."

The comment causes Charles to struggle visibly for a response. Erik prefers even awkward silence, but for Raven he will push. "I knew Raven had a trust fund, but she never told me the real reason she wouldn't touch it for a year. I told her to wait to do her financial fasting until she made journeyman and could raise her rates. She didn't listen."

It's clear Charles doesn't want to have this conversation, but he doesn't shift his weigh from foot to foot like most people. Instead, he steadies his stance, lifts his chin, and shoves his hands down into his pockets. He's steady, square like a boxer, but with hidden fists.

"I'm afraid neither of us are particularly given to listening," Charles admits wryly. "But a year of ramen is just that; a year of ramen. A tattoo is, as they say, is forever and as such, a disproportionate stake."

"If you didn't like your side of the stakes," Erik returns, "you shouldn't have taken the bet. Raven didn't just eat ramen, she had to sell her car and move in with friends. She took a second job waitressing in the mornings at IHOP and she cancelled her smartphone package and started using my old Samsung. Admittedly, using my old phone drove her wild within a week."

As Erik lists the various sacrifices Raven made, first world problems though they are, Charles holds his stance. He leans forward into the words like one would against an ocean wind, hands still anchored in his pockets.

"I had to be certain she knew what she was doing," Charles scowls. "She's brilliant, talented, and beautiful. She deserves a life surrounded by people that know her worth! She should live in New York, London, Paris, or Berlin, not an American city known mainly for hipsters and beavers."

"And if she'd lost?" Erik's blood is beginning to boil. It helps that he knows he's getting angry, that he can feel his fuse burning and can still snuff it out.

"If she'd lost," Charles scoffs, "then it would have been obvious to her that she didn't really want to live like this and she'd go back to New York."

"And you still think she's deluded," Erik snorts. He turns away from Charles and ducks back into the studio space. "Maybe you didn't make her stakes high enough."

"No, her heels are dug in now. You've rather seen to that." Charles' dress shoes' click softly on the hardwood flooring behind Erik; he seems to be the type that thinks the best defense is offense.

The steps hush as Erik stands at the bookshelf above the bench that holds his laptop, speakers, and turntable. This area is always fragrant with incense both burned and unburned. The shelf he has come to holds a diverse array of small, oblong boxes; some made of paper, others of wood. The paper ones are printed with a variety of colors.

Erik's not sure if he wants the expensive aloes wood or sandalwood, Asian incense or European. He settles on Asian and withdraws a small wooden box with Chinese characters seared into its face. He supposes some asshole in New York, London, Paris or Berlin has the same characters tattooed on his or her arm or chest.

"She knows what she wants," Erik says, prying off the box's lid. He withdraws two short, delicate sticks, closes the box again, and places it back where it came from. "I've no regrets supporting her decision."

"She has no idea what's best for her. And though I appreciate your sentiment, I don't think you do, either."

Erik reaches into his front jeans pocket for his lighter as he turns to face Charles. "You said yesterday that she improved more here than she had at her New York school. And today you said you thought this," he pulls his hand from his pocket and gestures at his covered shoulder with the lighter, "was your favorite piece so far. She knows what's best for her; making a living working in her preferred industry."

"Her preferred industry," Charles retorts, voice terribly low and calm, "is more famous for poor decisions, criminals, and sailors than anything else. The lifestyle, Erik, _this _lifestyle is so below what she deserves. Think about it. What does _your _family think about what you do?"

Erik considers Charles' voice, the passion in his quiet arrogance, the way he leans forward, further into Erik's space than is wise, and he flicks his thumb down on the lighter's wheel. It's that or punch Raven's brother in the face with every ounce of fury his long body holds in potentia. The spark lights the fuel vapor and a long flame jumps up above the lighter's metal body instead. Counting slowly to ten, Erik dips the ends of the incense sticks into the flame.

The flame begins to consume the thin sticks; Erik closes his lighter and drops it into his pocket again. He imagines the flames dancing on the tips of the incense are his desire to do violence. At ten he deliberately blows them out. In their place, sinuous columns of smoke billow up, carrying the rich scent of aloes wood; he visualizes his anger dispersing with the smoke as it rises toward the high ceiling. He turns from Charles and sets the sticks in a holder on the bench, next to the speakers.

By the time he's done, he's convinced himself that the effort required to patch things up with Raven wouldn't be worth the momentary pleasure of forcefully deviating her brother's septum via his scarred knuckles. When next he swivels back to Charles, he finds him with his eyes closed and one hand to the bridge of his nose, pinching lightly. Erik doubts Charles would find the coincidence at all amusing.

"I just said something awful." Charles opens his eyes and looks over his thumb and knuckle.

Erik nods. "Yes, you did. You have no idea."

"Raven told me you're Jewish." Charles admits. His fingers are still at his nose, his left hand grips his right elbow. "I'm sorry I said that. You've probably made enormous sacrifices."

Erik shrugs. "You have no idea," he repeats, because he is not going to think about this. He is not going to think about his parents or any of his relatives. No, that's something that only forces itself on him on major holidays. It isn't the first time he's glad he moved to Portland, where the Jewish community isn't tightknit like the East Coast and he hears more Hebrew than Yiddish when he hears either at all. "Show me Raven's designs."

...

Charles wishes he'd asked Raven for chamomile tea; his stomach is churning and his throat is working a little in nausea. If Erik had liked him even a bit, there's no possibility any of that has survived his latest outburst. Even as he searches his phone with clammy fingers to show Erik each design, he tells himself he shouldn't care about that. There are any number of people that don't like him, so it shouldn't matter. It shouldn't matter if he drew blood to get his point across.

But if it didn't matter, his stomach wouldn't be in an uproar and his throat wouldn't be tickling with nausea's butterfly wings.

The problem with enjoying the various rivalries he has in biology circles is that he has little practice in holding back when someone makes him so uncomfortable. When he has good ammunition, he uses it. It was the same with Sharon and their stepfather, Kurt; a man so horrid that he was denied visitation rights to his biological offspring. He uses the vitriol the way he uses his charm; one to repel and the other to ensnare. Maybe that's why Raven's design for Erik speaks so loudly to him; he sees a little of himself in the two-headed beast.

Erik betrays no emotion as he looks through the images with him, but Charles notices he keeps his right side angled away like a wounded animal protecting a wound. He's back to silence even when Charles asks directly what he thinks of Raven's designs. They're beautiful, graphic helixes with splashes of unruly watercolor intertwined; a dance of the orderly and chaotic that, while beautiful, makes Charles think equally of mutations and cancer.

Just as he's preparing himself to ask Erik what he thinks of the designs a second time, the door opens and he hears Raven, Angel, and the un-introduced photographer come back in. The group's presence dispels any remaining tension between the two. Erik continues looking at the last, latest, design Raven sent, not even acknowledging the interlopers. Angel and the photographer descend on the gallery space's couch with paper cups in hand.

Raven ducks under the short noren with a brown paper bag in one hand and a carrier with three drinks in the other. "Angel says they want my chimera tattoo since it's a joint effort and then they'll have enough material for the magazine. They'll send a local photographer over when my journeyman piece is finished."

"No food in the studio," Erik murmurs, still looking at Charles' phone. "Put it by the window and come back over here."

"But little Ms. Pryde sends you an offering of decaf Americano~!" Raven croons in a singsong voice. She ignores Erik's vaguely-delivered order and sets the bag on the railroad tie wall's sill and walks over with the drink carrier. "Are you guys trading porn or are you still looking at my designs?"

Charles only wishes it was porn; he wonders what kind Erik likes. Of course, looking the way he does, maybe it would be better to wonder what kind he'd star in? Charles proceeds to nearly choke on his own spit. As usual Erik says nothing so Charles answers Raven instead, "Your designs. Are one of those drinks mine?"

"I knew you'd change your mind." Raven grins at him and nods. "First flush Darjeeling! I already dosed it with soy milk for you."

Her smile warms his heart as much as the tea warms his hand once he picks it up. "You are a delightsome creature, Raven."

"I am," Raven replies. She stands next to him but bends around Erik's arm to look at Charles' phone. "What's up boss? Are you having a staring contest with Charles' phone? I don't fancy your chances."

Erik gives a short sigh and glances sharply at Raven. "These aren't like your usual work. They're just variations on DNA helixes."

Erik's irritation is obvious, but Charles has no idea what's prompting it. He hasn't looked at the images closely or at any length, but Erik has been studying them like he's trying to tease out the key to some alien cuneiform hidden within each line.

"They're not personal," Raven says, showing no disappointment with Erik's irritation. She seems to be in agreement with him. "Charles works in life sciences, specifically in genetics, so I started there because it's neutral ground. I've been frustrated with him so anything personal was coming out all wrong. I didn't want to memorialize my anger on him. I've been waiting for inspiration to come up with something based on love."

Raven and her honesty, Charles thinks, feeling his heart soften at her words. Few people really see the full range and diversity of his bad points the way she does. Nobody in his life loves him the way she does, either. She gets the full force of his arrogance and pride and turns love back on him regardless. That's what has made sticking to his guns in the matter of her career choices so hard. He wants her to be happy and if that means they have struggles in their relationship, he just reminds himself his sacrifices are for her greater good.

"Thank you," he says with every bit of gravitas he can muster and means it. "I love you, too."

When Raven looks back at him, she's not unaffected by his sentiment. Her eyes are a little wet, but tears don't make it far enough to affect to her mascara. "Shut up, Charles."

_Yes, ma'am_, he mouths to make her laugh. It works.

Erik, on the other hand, has an expression on his face that has finally ventured out of the limited spectrum of blank-to-annoyed. Charles is an expert when it comes to reading expressions and body language. It's a skill that makes him particularly adept at charming his friends and enraging his opponents. Were he to name the emotion Erik is displaying, it would be either curiosity or interest. He sees it in the way Erik's eyebrows lift over his eyes, the deepening of the creases on his forehead, the shine in his eyes that Charles hasn't seen before.

"_So ist das also_," he says with something resembling a smile.

Charles feels an answering smile pull across his face. Apparently Erik's faint accent is of German origin. Really, with his square forehead and jaw, height, and broad shoulders it should have been obvious. And that's interesting, too, because shouldn't he have used Yiddish rather than German? Not that Charles considers himself an expert on Jewish language conventions.

He passes the phone back to Charles without looking at him, because his eyes are back on Raven. "I would really appreciate it if you'd expedite the process. I want to start Charles' consultation before five. You and I are going to be at it late tonight."

"Right, then," Raven nods. The warmth and good humor shared between she and Charles gives way to impishness. A bright sparkle of mischief springs to life in her eyes.

Charles shifts back defensively on his heels; he knows this particular smile is the precursor to something she thinks will annoy him. She's rarely wrong. It's the maniacal brightness of eye and upwards twist of lip that says she's about to try to embarrass the hell out of him and do it with unholy glee. "Can you make sure Erik eats? I want to get back to work on him once the shoot is over."

Charles glances at Erik. "I'll try, but—"

But when he glances back, Raven takes the hem of her blouse and whips it up and over her head. She isn't wearing a bra. As much as Charles genuinely loves and appreciates beautiful, full breasts like Raven's, he doesn't feel right seeing hers. Having them on display for Erik is far worse. No, it's beyond unthinkable.

"_Raven! _My God, put your shirt back on!"

She laughs wickedly, but lifts the shirt to her chest all the same. "Oh my God, your face, Charles! Your expression! I can't even believe you managed to manhandle Erik like that!"

With her breasts covered again, Charles is free to think and to realize, yes, he's laid hands on Erik. He registers firm muscles under thin cloth. One hand feels particularly slippery over warm skin. Charles tears his horrified gaze from Raven and follows his arms down to his hands; one is gripping Erik's bicep, the other is flat on the back of his shoulder.

In his panic Charles has managed to twist Erik a full 180 degrees around until his back is to Raven.

Erik looks down at him from over his shoulder. "You have no idea just how many people get their nipples done in the course of a tattoo. Even I have one covered."

"Maybe you do, but you have man nipples! And Raven's my sister!" Charles retorts, both scandalized and every bit as embarrassed as Raven had intended. He yanks both hands back to his torso where they close in loose fists a few inches beneath and away from his rapidly beating heart.

"Man nipples…!" Raven sputters, choking on laughter. Her mascara is threatened by tears of hilarity as they squeeze from her crinkled eyes.

"Do you think I tattooed her with her shirt on?" Erik says as he turns back around. "Raven doesn't have anything I haven't seen before."

"Hah, that's the truth," Raven agrees. "I better go get my picture taken," she adds and heads for the gallery space with her shirt held loosely over her breasts. "Make sure Erik eats, Charles!"

"Put your shirt back on," Charles says after her, but she does no such thing. "What if somebody comes to the door? It isn't even locked!"

"If you don't like it, don't look," Erik says. "Have you ever looked through her portfolio? Or seen any of the magazines she's had work published in? There's a lot of nudity involved in tattooing."

Charles shakes his head; he knew she'd been published before and that this isn't Erik's first feature, but he's never wanted to encourage her work in the field, so he's only looked at, and enthused over, her designs, not the finished products. "Look, Erik, she's my sister and I don't want people looking at her breasts. How hard is that to understand?"

...

Erik doesn't feel a bit of sympathy for Charles or his misplaced chivalry. He decides the argument isn't worth it, even if he does value Raven more highly than anyone else in his association since Moira. Tuning Charles out, he leans toward the half-burned incense and waves the smoke over himself. Since he's scaled back to simple social, incense is the only smoke he takes into his lungs with any regularity.

He picks up the paper bag with the sandwich inside and Kitty's specially-made decaf Americano and walks out. He isn't going to break his own rules and eat where he works. If Charles doesn't want to see the magazine photographer shooting Raven's chimera, that's fine with him.

In the gallery space, Erik pushes the schedule book to the far side of the railroad tie sill and sets down his food and drink in the other. He sits between the two and pulls his long legs up to sit cross-legged. Quietly, he observes the photog working out the best way to use the naturally diffused light coming in through the factory window. Meanwhile Angel helps keep Raven's hair from falling over the expansive back piece.

Raven had wanted the chimera on her front, but she hadn't seen a way to incorporate the topography of her breasts with the piece, so she'd gone with her back. As it is, the scaled lioness appears to be climbing down Raven's back. Her lion's head is watchful, but non-threatening. It's the three blue snakes acting as the lioness' tail that writhe all over Raven's upper back and shoulders in obvious volatile threat.

The tattoo design had started out with only one snake, but Raven had Erik add two more to cover her shoulders. Recently she's been talking about adding a second pair to bring the design to her chest as she's always wanted. Erik's sure Charles won't approve of that; though he thinks the mere fact that he and Raven had that one extremely stupid Pesach fuck would likely lead her brother to consider physical violence an option.

Erik spends a few moments on that thought. When agitated, Charles takes up a boxing stance; depending on how much he knows and how strong his punches are, academic or not, he might be able to give Erik a run for his money. If Charles has muscles under the blazer and dress shirt, and if he could get inside Erik's long reach, chances are good the shorter man could send him to a hospital.

Which would be fine, because Erik doesn't plan on hitting back. No, not anymore. Not if he can help it. And if he can't? He shakes the thought out of his head; it's not an option for him.

He unwraps his sandwich and begins to eat instead. He's had it before, but Erik's always amazed that Darwin can make chickpeas taste like tuna. It's also nice that vegan food is almost automatically kosher, though it isn't like that really matters now. Erik observes personal traditions for his mother, because even though he doesn't believe in an afterlife or deity, he's sentimental enough that he wants to honor her memory with _something_. Because sure as shit, there's no way in hell a rabbi, no matter how loving and liberal, or equally as corrupt, is going to bless his tattoo benches.

As Erik eats, he watches Charles venture to the doorway and flips the noren behind his head; he's tall enough that the short curtain comes down to his chin. For Erik it's more of an effective visual block, hitting him around clavicle height. It makes for a decent psychological demarcation between their open gallery space and the private area where they work. Often enough, people with crap boundaries aren't deterred by it. Erik doesn't mind; that's what harsh words were made for, but he wishes Raven hadn't rendered the short curtain's test useless to her brother.

Charles watches, at first, as the photographer shoots Raven's chimera. In turn, Erik continues to watch the watcher from the corner of his eye. He has no idea at this point what he's going to design for Charles without his input. Raven hadn't known, either, or she would have done something more than pretty DNA helixes.

That's one mystery solved: if Raven sees herself as a chimera, something powerful and feminine, something that can change appearance at will, and if she can see him as a two-headed dragon, something that fights against itself, then all the helixes lacked the usual dimension because she had made no personal connection with them. He'd known there was something different about them instinctually, but it took her telling him what it was to figure it out. It means that genetics is Charles' field and interest, but genetics isn't who he is.

Which brings him to an interesting question. Does he want to design a tattoo that says something about Charles? How well will he have to know him to design for him? Or does he just want to stay in his comfort zone and pull off yet another piece that showcases his advanced technical skill married to his anatomical knowledge? He's not sure. He'll have to bounce the idea off Charles and Raven.

It would help if Charles actually knew what styles he was known for, so Erik swallows another bite of his sandwich and turns his head to the right. "Charles."

"Yes?" Charles looks at him, distracted from his staring. There's a deep crease at his brow where his eye brows have crowded together. He seems the type to carry stress there, probably given to tension headaches.

"Do you prefer art books to be paper or digital?"

Charles lifts one eyebrow at that; it arches in the way the adjective diabolical was created solely to lend descriptive power to. "Digital for easy transport, paper if convenience isn't an issue."

Erik wonders if Charles ever gives simple answers. If he continues Raven's theme of mythological creatures, maybe a sphinx would be appropriate for Charles. He gestures with his free hand to the coffee table to one side of the couch. He and Raven always keep their better and more diverse works in portfolios on the table where customers can easily get to them without having to ask.

"I'd like you to go through those." Erik keeps his tone neutral. It isn't hard now that he's starting to think about a different kind of project. If there's anything he likes, it's a new challenge to conquer. "There are some sticky notes in my desk you can use to mark anything that catches your eye."

The stress on Charles' face turns sour before becoming tired exasperation. "Right. Perhaps that will keep me from thinking about the world staring at photos of my sister's breasts."

Erik shrugs. "You do know that Raven's played the field, right? Not a few boys and girls have done more than just looked at her breasts."

The look Charles turns on him is only just short of murderous, but Erik can't bring himself to care. Maybe it means he suspects Erik's gotten intimate with those glorious tits of Raven's, but it serves the asshole right.

"If you ever had a sister, you'd understand," Charles finally retorts and stalks the short walk to the coffee table.

"Jesus," Raven mutters, as he goes, "can you stop talking about my boobs?"

"Senti Ink doesn't do nudity," Angel adds as if by rote. "Too much of a hassle. If Raven has any nip showing, it'll get 'shopped out. Though, hey, we did run an issue that accidentally showed a guy's sac. It's been two years and I'm pretty sure our art director is still waiting for obscenity charges."

Raven and Angel snicker over the incident while Charles picks up the four coffee table portfolios and retreats to the studio. Erik watches him absently, content to eat the other half of his sandwich in peace. Too bad Kitty's Americano will be tepid by the time he gets to it. He'll have to visit her for another later if she's still on the clock.

A few minutes later, the photographer steps back and tells them he has enough shots. He even offers to let Charles look through them. Erik finds himself annoyed at the guy's peace offering, but says nothing, watching Raven instead as she pulls her shirt on. She really does have great breasts, he thinks, but other than tattooing the other two serpents along her décolletage, his time with them is certainly done.

"Charles will gut you if he sees you staring like that," she says and leans against the wall next to the sill. "How you feeling?"

"He thinks a little too much about your breasts for a brother," Erik snarks.

"Ugh, gross. But no, how are you feeling, asshole?"

Erik gives her a show of teeth that few would interpret as a smile. "Better. What did you tell them?"

"I told them you hadn't eaten," she sighs. "I felt weird about the other thing you said. Anyway, Angel said she doesn't plan to use it for the article."

He felt weird about what he'd said, too, but doesn't say as much. In the end, he trusts Raven's instinct for these things, so he has no complaint. Raven picks up the schedule book and sits right next Erik, careful of the fairly fresh tattoo under his shirt and a layer of plastic wrap. They sit and quietly share space as Angel and the photographer pack up their stuff one last time; they have a plane to catch in four hours. It would probably be a smart move to join them for dinner somewhere, but Erik wants to get business taken care of with Charles and get back on the journeyman tattoo with Raven.

When the magazine people are ready, he and Raven move off the sill and see them to the door. Angel's smile and Raven's jokes improve his mood enough that he almost wishes he could invite them to dinner. Almost.

As they head downstairs for their rental car, Angel pauses and turns back to Raven. "Let me know your schedule; I'd like to talk to you about getting some work done."

"Sure," Raven replies. "Better plan on coming out for business and pleasure! We can do the Art Walk and tour the breweries."

Raven is beaming even after the two have left. She hugs Erik, but keeps their former comfortable silence. She doesn't have to tell him how important it is for an industry person like Angel to want her work. He gives her a one-armed hug back and smiles down at her. He feels inexplicably tired, but he won't let that deny her this victory.

She rushes from his hold when they near their desk in order to attack Charles with her enthusiasm. Erik listens just long enough to hear Charles' censure warm into what might be brotherly pride, then sits back on the railroad tie sill to think about sphinxes. Maybe he could design a tattoo in Raven's style instead of his own. Of course, Charles might still resist taking things seriously, so perhaps the first thing he designs should be outrageous. That's easy enough. Erik picks up a pen and notepad and starts sketching.

"Let's start the consultation," he says over his shoulder, into the studio. He's expecting Charles to come around the wall, into the gallery but he hears the chair at the desk behind him pull out instead. Erik shrugs and pivots around on his ass; as a college professor perhaps desks make Charles feel more comfortable.

Charles looks at him from where he's seated at the desk and, yes, he looks like he owns it. He has all four portfolios laid out before him and a pad of unopened sticky notes on top. His blue eyes are piercing, his expression sober. For a moment Erik is taken aback, reminded first of Moira MacTaggert and then his high school principle back in New York. Neither woman brooked his nonsense whether he towered over them or not.

He shakes the feeling off, but he's impressed and intrigued all the same. The memories fade and he returns to the text he's working out on his notepad. "See anything that gives you any ideas?"

"They're all excellent pieces," Charles says, "but I don't see anything that works for me."

"That's fine, I've got a text piece here that will work. How do you feel about Spencerian script? Or maybe Round Hand for your English heritage?" Erik keeps embellishing the sketch as he talks, completely at ease. "Spencerian is American, of course. I learned to read and write in Germany, though, so if you want Kurrent or Frakture, those are also options."

Across the desk, Erik hears him shift, notes Charles' shadow coming closer as he leans forward. It's the first sign of interest since all this started. Unexpected. "Text? You know, I hadn't thought of that at all. Neither you nor Raven have much text in your portfolios."

"We both do text," Erik corrects, "but neither of us have text-only pieces in the coffee table books. Most of my text works are incorporated into a piece and half the time the text doesn't look like text; words distract from an image."

"I think Raven and I have discussed that before," Charles replies. "I've seen a fair number of text tattoos. I don't know if there's any one thing, though, that is important enough to print on my skin. Now you have me curious. What's this text piece you think would work for me?"

Erik looks down at his rushed Spencerian handiwork. It isn't his best, but it doesn't have to be, it just has to look good while conveying his message, which it does. Even though Charles won't like what it says, he'll have to register that the work itself is professional. He tucks his pen behind his ear and turns the notepad to Charles' capable hands.

It says:_ I lost a Bet with my Sister and all I got out of it was this stupid Tattoo._

"Raven told you my rates. $200 an hour with a two hour minimum. You're a wealthy man," Erik says calmly, watching Charles face dispassionately as interest turns to shock turns to quickly suppressed disgust. "$400 American won't make a dent in your wallet. You've probably had dinners that cost more than that. Possibly even with heads of state. Still, if I were you, I'd want to get my money's worth out of it."

Erik may not be able to sympathize, but he can empathize with how difficult it must be for Charles to keep from crushing the note with the infuriating sketch in his hand. Erik knows he can be infuriating, but he also knows when he's right.

When Charles looks up from the notepad, his face is shuttered, but his blue eyes are electric with energy. He looks alive like that; somehow vital and more than a little sexy. Erik finds himself far more interested in this tattoo project than he was before.

"Fine. I'll work with you on this," Charles says with the perfect control of the deeply angered. He rips the page off the notepad and folds it up in ruthlessly creased squares of rapidly diminishing dimensions.

"Good," Erik replies evenly. "I'll have my assistant coordinate with you."

"You do that," Charles retorts and propels himself back from the desk. He stands swiftly and shoves the paper in his front pocket with more of that electric intensity. "Raven, give me a call tonight when you're free, please. I'm heading back to the hotel to have few drinks with my colleagues."

"No problem! We're closed Saturdays, so if the weather permits and you want to picnic with me, we can go to the Rose Garden."

Charles nods, but says nothing more as he collects his messenger bag and heads down the hall. The door to the stairs doesn't slam behind him, but it's a close thing.

"You are an incredible troll," Raven comments dryly. Her expression hints that she thinks she knows more than he's letting on. "I think you like him."

"No, I'm just being myself." It isn't a lie. He can't deny a little animal attraction, but that's just another statement with little chance of coming out of his mouth. "And start Dr. Xavier's bill with a $100 charge; he just walked out with my original artwork."


	3. Dancing polarities

Note: I have two excellent specimens of Raven fan art linked at my profile! Huge thanks to SouvenirsFamiliers and Synekodokee for their immense generosity of time and effort in producing art for this fic!

* * *

_Dancing polarities_

"You're going to owe me," Erik says, as he puts the Frontier into park, turns off the windshield wipers, and pulls up the brake. "Coffee for a week and those meth-laced lavender cookies."

The rain has passed back to a more penetrating drizzle. It collects silently on the truck's paint and glass in growing beads until they're large enough to run in silver rivulets down every vertical and sloped surface. The cloud cover has triggered the lights early; the fallen rain sparkles, reflecting the lamplight from all around the garden's parking.

With a twist on the keys, Erik turns the six-cylinder engine off. He pulls the key out and slides his key ring into his olive green raincoat. Erik pulls the hood up out of necessity; he may like rain, but getting soaked will just make him cold, after all. He opens his door into the rain and steps down to the wet asphalt.

The black truck is the only vehicle present in the parking lot. Normally, the Rose Garden is more popular, but Erik suspects the rain and late afternoon hour is keeping people away. It frees him to enjoy the smell of roses, fir trees, and rich, wet earth. Nearby, he hears crows calling to each other.

"This is hardly the worst thing you've done on a Saturday." Raven pulls up the hood on her rain coat and follows him out, splashing in puddles in her purple Wellies with white polka dots.

"Yeah, but you're supposed to be my Shabbos goy," Erik replies as he walks around the truck. "Not the other way around."

In truth, Erik often works on Saturdays, even goes in to the shop to meditate; a habit which leads to cleaning, upgrading the autoclave, or otherwise improving his business. He doesn't feel bad about violating Shabbos; his mother's disapproval and frustration were light in the face of his industriousness. Especially when she'd discovered that he sometimes worked to tease her.

He pulls the tailgate down and reaches in for the collapsible metal canopy frame Darwin loaned Raven on last minute notice. He pulls the frame forward with his off hand in order to avoid stretching the new tattoo on his right. It's a strange feeling to have his still freshly-tattooed skin stick a little to the underside of his t-shirt. It burned during his morning shower, but no worse than his ribs when his blackwork was fresh.

"You're just jealous nobody's done something like this for you," Raven says, snagging the bag with the canopy's vinyl cover. "Though, you know you can always do this for somebody else. The Sentimental Ink photographer was into you."

"Too much work for a one-night stand." Erik takes the metal frame under one arm and heads for the sidewalk that eventually leads to the test garden. On a clear day there's a lovely view of , but that's a rough bet until June.

"That's rich, coming from you," Raven says from beside him. She has her face down, watching the splash of her boots as she hits puddles and sends the wash purposely over Erik's shins and thong-style sandals. If he were wearing shoes he'd have long since wrestled her to the grass and shoved mud down the back of her shirt.

"Is it?" he asks automatically. "You're thinking of setting up at the bench that has the view of ?"

"That's the place. Bench'll be wet, but I brought towels." She switches back to his first, mostly rhetorical question. "And yeah it's rich, because, it's too much work for a one-night stand but here you are helping me."

Erik's pleasant mood falters, but he doesn't miss his step. "We agreed that night was a mistake."

"Better to laugh about it," she replies, as they head up the stairs. "Because sooner or later you might give up the occasional one-night stands for a commitment. And if that happens you'll have to tell somebody we fucked. I had to tell Hank before he and I got serious."

"That won't be a problem." He'd shrug, but the frame makes the effort too much of a burden. "Is that why I've never met Hank? Territorial pissings?"

"Pffft! No." Raven chuckles. They're almost up the last flight of stairs. "He was a nervous wreck before and after meeting my brother and Charles is capable of being one hell of a charmer. No, Hank needs exposure to you a little bit at a time to build his immunity. Once we move in together, I think that'll be more doable."

"You're going to have to buy a car, if you move to Corvallis." Erik sets the canopy frame down by the bench and starts pulling the legs out to expand it. Raven's plan of a slow introduction suits him just fine. "Speaking of Charles, I knew somebody in France that used to have access to ink that fades within a few years. I wouldn't tell your brother that, but it would save him laser treatment if the ink is still available."

At first Raven doesn't respond. She pulls the canopy's top out of its bag and starts unfolding it. It isn't until she starts to drape it over the frame that she replies. "Get me your contact's info and I'll make some inquiries, but Erik, I'm serious about this. Charles needs to accept his consequences. Also, I have a feeling you can get through to him where I can't. You already got him to talk to you about it; he just ignores me."

"Of course he ignores you," Erik replies. He has the legs almost completely expanded and so turns to help Raven slot the vinyl cover in the perimeter posts. "Familiarity breeds contempt."

"No, it's more than that." Raven pauses and looks out over the rain gathering on the blue canopy's expanse. What light there is to be had reflects up from the tarp, painting her skin an ephemeral blue similar to that of her chimera's serpents. "You bother him, Erik. Pardon the pun, but people just don't get under his skin like that. When it comes to my friends, he defers politely or ignores them when he doesn't agree, but he's only just met you and he's shown teeth."

Erik doesn't look away from Raven's face within her colorfully-striped hood. He wonders at the little jolt that strikes his stomach at her words. He's not sure if it is nausea or interest, but either way it doesn't feel particularly pleasant. Finding the canopy's construction more comfortable by far, he finally returns to its completion. He concentrates on the feeling of the drizzle as it washes over the backs of his hands and glides down his forearms past the elastic at his wrists.

"He's taking this seriously now," Raven continues. She has her half of the vinyl secured and makes no move to do more. Her bare hands rest lightly on the tarp; she seems to have lost focus on her part of their task. "I really think you can convince him, Erik. He said he'd work with you and I believe him."

"He might be thinking he can put this off for a few years," Erik replies at length. He finishes hooking the last few tarp corners over their corresponding rods. "How often is he in America?"

"Charles is usually here for conferences and holidays." Raven places her hands on her hips and nods to him knowingly. "And you're doing the London show in September. But where either of you are won't matter until he agrees on the design. After that, well, Charles might seem like his privilege has made him soft, but he's tough. If he prepares properly, he could probably take a well-planned six-hour session."

"No, I agree; he probably can take six hours," Erik muses. He spreads the legs the last of the way out and lowers their supports to lock them in place. "I'll keep that in mind as I work on the design."

"Have any ideas yet?"

"I thought I might try to do something like your chimera, only on a less detailed, smaller scale." Erik ducks under the fully seated tarp and starts raising the four corners of the canopy a bit at a time. "Something suited to him, so he's more likely to accept it. Maybe a sphinx."

Raven ducks underneath the canopy and pulls her hood back from her head. Her dark roots are beginning to show along the part of her hair. More importantly, she's looking at him curiously. "He'll think you're trolling if you send him a sphinx. Naked boobies, right? Anyway, he's not so mysterious. Last night he sounded interested in text."

"Text would leave the ball in his court," Erik comments. "If left to his own devices, he won't choose a quote or create his own. I'm going to have to push him every step of the way."

"Yeah," Raven sighs. "That's true. And quotes can be even trickier than images; they don't grow with a person as easily."

With the four corners raised to their full height, all that's left is to go back to the truck and grab the sandbags to keep the canopy blowing away. It isn't a likely event, with the lack of wind in the seeping, omnipresent drizzle, but Erik prefers to be prepared in case of disaster.

* * *

Charles is in a seminar discussing information analyzing strategies to mitigate the genome sequencing data that continues to flood the field. Since this morning, he's been thinking about Raven. It hasn't been entirely a pleasant experience between his hangover and multiple strange dreams.

He can still remember the last dream of her walking around the convention naked and forcing him to go naked, too. He even recalls hazy dreams about Erik's black stripe turning flat and opaque. In the dream he and Erik had resumed a conversation about Raven, but he couldn't remember what either of them said when he woke up.

It was a compelling dream and it has nourished a kernel of thought he doesn't want to examine. Unfortunately, the damage is done, the seed has cracked and roots have sunk into the fertile soil of Charles' restless mind. Charles is, for the first time, exploring the vague notion that he might be slightly incorrect, only a little misguided in what is best for Raven.

He'd thought their bet would force her to realize that her earnings in the tattoo industry would not afford her a decent life without a strong reliance on her trust fund. She's always hated the idea of depending on the money that came from Brian's, and then Sharon's, death. Even though it was cruel and manipulative, Charles had counted on Raven's abhorrence of depending on that money to cure her of her desire to work in an unsavory service-related business.

But she'd made the sacrifices necessary to go on and had, in fact, mentioned that she could have done it for the rest of her life only relying on her trust fund for health insurance.

He'd brushed her commentary off as contrary and self-deluded, until he'd seen how happy she was at the studio. Heard Erik make his matter-of-fact commentary about how she had bloomed as an artist by working in the so-called real world and even reiterated the sacrifices she'd made. Then Charles had seen with his own eyes how professional and precise she was preparing Erik for his tattoo even under watchful eyes. Finally, Angel, the magazine writer, had affirmed Raven's skill and genius.

It doesn't help that traces of the two-headed dragon continue to linger beneath his eyelids. The trouble is that Raven's tattoo for Erik is the sort of revealing, personal work one rarely sees in museums. It's a masterpiece not made for public consumption or approval; few would ever look beyond the initial clichés to the profundity of their relevance. A masterpiece profoundly relevant to the individual who wears it skin deep. Erik is the key to the dragon just as the dragon is a key to Erik.

Charles should be listening to the seminar and the creative as well as the pedantic suggestions flying around the room. He should be joining in and taking his usual hand-written notes. Instead he has the recording app going on his phone and his tablet in hand. He takes his time browsing Raven's portfolio on the Quicksilver website. While he's at it, he checks her bio and chuckles at how informal and personable it is. Erik's is nothing more than a fully-referenced, bulleted list of skills, achievements, and awards; there's nothing about where he learned his trade or where he's worked.

It is against the website's backdrop that he sees the incoming message icon. The text is a simple message from Raven telling him her picnic invitation to the Rose Garden is good rain or shine and that she will pick him up from the hotel at six. The message cheers him, despite his churning thoughts and the terrible headache from drinking too much with his colleagues the night before.

The rest of the day moves on and he gets right back into his groove; studying both the lectures and the general attitude of the assembled academics. On Sunday, one of his colleagues is presenting her work and, if the preponderance of the attending scientists seem antagonistic, he intends to be in the crowd to support her against any frivolously dissenting comments. He's good at that and bringing a people over to a point of view he champions. The only person he doesn't seem to be able to do that to, other than Raven, is Erik.

At the end of the last seminar for the day, Charles is so caught up in a discussion about fraudulent research out of several prestigious international universities that he forgets the time completely. He and a few others are arguing about the need for more or less oversight when he hears a familiar voice.

"Oh my God, Charles, do your students have to come get you for classes?"

Laughingly chagrined, Charles turns toward Raven's voice. "There's a reason I have no first period classes!"

"Charles, it is 6:30 in the afternoon."

Her jeans are tucked into polka dot Wellies and there's a furled umbrella in her hand. She's wearing a judiciously butchered Oxford sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder and displays several square inches of blue skin.

"Christ, man," laughs a colleague from ColumbiaUniversity, "you have somebody in every port, don't you? She certainly looks like a wild child, Xavier."

Charles' expression darkens, counterpoint to the deceptively light tone he uses in reply. "Why this lovely creature happens to be my sister, Professor."

The man pales and begins sputtering an apology, but nobody is listening: all eyes are on Raven as she walks up to Charles and kisses his cheek. "This lovely creature has arrived to sweep you out into the even lovelier Portland weather for a picnic."

Charles feels his colleagues' stares as if they were on him rather than Raven. Instead of kissing her back, he reaches up and picks at the neck of his old Oxford sweatshirt, trying to cover up the blue. He's momentarily thankful she doesn't have any visibly unusual piercings; her gauged, wooden earrings are hidden by the mass of her dyed blond hair.

"You must be cold," he says. "Where's your coat?"

The smile drops from Raven's face; she pushes his hands off her shoulders. "Out in the truck with my abaya."

"Wonderful," Charles says, his smile bright and plastic. "Let's go, shall we? Before the weather takes a turn for the worse."

"Sure." Raven shoves the umbrella at him, turning away before he's even got his hands on it; he manages to catch it before it hits the floor. He shrugs and gives his disbelieving colleagues an apologetic smile in farewell, and then jogs to catch up with Raven.

The drizzle is now a light rain; the umbrella is a good choice. Raven waits for him to unfurl it under the shelter outside the entryway. He undoes the closure and presses the button along the aluminum shaft and the canvas spreads out with a rush and a snap. Though her arms are crossed over her chest and her eyes as icy as frozen earth, he steps close to swing the umbrella up in an arc above both their heads.

"Lovely weather for a picnic," he says. "We could stop and I could buy us some brandy or schnapps."

Raven unfolds one arm to shove a hand in her pocket to pull out a set of keys. Then it's right back up, covering her chest; the motion up nudges one shoulder of the sweatshirt down to uncover more blue scales. With his free hand, Charles reaches out and tugs the worn fabric up again.

"When did you steal this? I don't remember when I noticed it was gone."

She looks at him, her eyes liquid with emotion he fears might overflow borders and flood over her round cheeks. "My first year at SVA. The Christmas after Sharon died. The winter of my discontent."

Winter of discontent was an understatement for them both, Charles thought. It was that messy winter when he broke up with two different lovers, fell in love with every single one-night stand, and died every morning he woke up alone. All while trying and failing to take in and shelter the ocean of Raven's emotional turmoil.

"I gave you vintage Tiffany that year," Charles tries, "and you stole my rattiest sweatshirt. Well, young lady, I shall mend the error of my ways and from here on save all my rubbish clothes for you."

Raven looks sharply down and the motion sends two trickles down her face. Charles makes more mistakes than he cares to admit, but this is one he hopes he will never make: he swallows her up in his arms and presses her to his painfully clenched chest. Though they remain under the parking lot shelter, he keeps the umbrella aloft, over their heads.

Raven hesitates before finally putting her arms around Charles' ribs and setting her chin on his shoulder. When she speaks it's with a slight croak to her voice. "Please, Charles. Please stop thinking I'm something to be ashamed of. And don't insult me by pretending that you don't; I'm not stupid."

Charles loosens his fingers on the umbrella so the shaft slides down until the armature hits his knuckles. He angles his wrist to tip the umbrella back to shield them both not from rain, but from observers. "I'm sorry. I'm ruining everything again, aren't I?"

Her chin doesn't dig in but inscribes an invisible quarter circle on his shoulder, back and forth across his wool blazer as she shakes her head. "Sometimes I feel like I'm one of your girlfriends or boyfriends, but you can't dump me for being too emotionally invested, because we're related. Except, no, you would never date a SVA drop out, let alone a tattooist."

"Raven," Charles whispers, trying desperately for soothing, "you're right; I would never date you, but not because you dropped out of SVA or because you tattoo people."

He pulls back enough to look her again in her eyes. She looks back, chin ducked and still defensive, but waiting. "You're scaring me."

"No, don't be scared." He lets go of her with his free hand just long enough to pull his arm up and tap her nose and offer her a fragile curve of lips. "I wouldn't date you because, as you always remind me, I have awful taste in partners. Don't you always say I chase the bad ones and dump the good ones? I might not approve of Hank long-term, but obviously he knows quality when he sees it."

A few more tears navigate her cheeks, but she matches his weak smile with one of her own. "You know, I want your approval, but I've stopped making decisions based on it."

The admission stings, it always does, but Charles nods this time and says nothing more. None of the so-called domineering mantras about her age or maturity leave his mouth. Nor does he apologize, but he would have to decide he's wrong before he'd offer Raven one of those.

"C'mon, Erik's waiting for us," she says and pulls away. But she slips her right hand down to his open left and holds it.

They step into the rain and splash across the blacktop to the far rows of parked vehicles. He keeps her hand in his as they go, but doesn't ask the question bothering him until they get to a black truck.

"Why is Erik waiting for us?"

Raven pulls the proper key to the fore from amongst the other keys on the ring. She slots the key and turns it to the right, opens the door, and hits the driver's side button to unlock the passenger side. "Because he's guarding our picnic set up and this is his truck."

Again he remembers Erik's words. _Raven didn't just eat ramen, she had to sell her car and move in with friends._ Last she'd told him she was still living in a drafty loft with two friends; a DJ trying to get out of his Nike day job and a Spanish model that's almost never home and rumored to be dating a Russian mobster.

Once they're both inside the truck and Raven has pulled out onto the rainy streets, Charles says, "You know, it's been several months since you won the bet. You can buy any car you like now."

"Yeah." She nods and glances at him with another weak, yet hopeful, smile. "I know."

The ride over to the Rose Garden is filled with the rain's calm surrusus. The leaden sky has deepened into full dark by the time Raven pulls into the garden's rain-slick parking. She eschews the umbrella she gave Charles for a colorful, striped raincoat which she rests it across her thighs. She reaches back behind Charles' seat to the half cab to lift a pair of black rain boots through the seats' divide. The boots are deposited unceremoniously in his lap. "Wouldn't want to ruin your shoes."

Charles rolls his eyes, but is thankful: he may have a tendency to wear the same combinations of color and fabric when it comes to suiting, but he has always had an avid interest in good shoes. He pulls his dark leather shoes from his feet, noting their relative need for polish and shine as he removes each one.

The boots Raven has given him are Columbia-branded rubber; they have no laces and the tread is only slightly worn down on the heel and ball of the foot. They're too big to be Raven's, but too small for her boyfriend. If she's borrowed Erik's truck, he supposes she's borrowed his boots as well. _Today I shall walk, not a mile, but the short distance to a soggy rose garden in your shoes._

"What's so funny?" Raven asks from within her adorably striped hood. "You're smiling all of a sudden."

Charles pushes his right foot into a boot first. "Ah, just wondering whose shoes I'm walking in today."

Raven's smile is wider now, her eyes crinkling a bit at the edges. "Erik's. Too bad his feet are so big; he seems to want to walk in yours lately."

A shock hits Charles' in an instant. He can feel his heart squeezing his fingers tight and then loose with every pulse of frantic blood. "Why would he want to do something like that?"

"He's starting to come up with ideas for a design," Raven replies. "He's trying to make it something that'll suit you. That's new to him; he's more technical and design oriented, not into personalities. So, your tattoo will either be a new direction for him or a one-off. Either way, an important piece for both of you."

It is amazing he can hear her over the blood rushing through his head. Is she saying that Erik wants to get to know him? It's terrifying. It's electrifying.

The driver's side door opens and the sound of the rain grows all the louder without the door's protective seal. Cold air drifts in, chasing the warmth in the cab generated by their bodies in the confined space.

"Are you coming?"

Raven's voice galvanizes him from his deep pause. Fumbling with the second boot, Charles finally slides his foot home and snags his leather shoes with his index and ring fingers. "Do I leave these here or take them with me?"

"Leave them," Raven says, her voice now soft, harmonizing with the falling rain. "Erik will pick us up later."

He leaves the shoes on the gray rubber foot mat and lets himself out of the truck, umbrella leading. Both doors lock automatically when Raven locks her side.

Rain is nothing new to Charles; Oxford is no stranger to clouds or unrelenting rain. The boots are also nothing new, only a little big; something he could possibly cure with an extra pair of thick socks. His folded over trouser legs work well in that regard.

Portland's Rose Garden sparkles under the various streetlamps. In the contrast of the bright lamps and shadows, the conifers and rose vines are nearly the same shade of blackish-green. The roses are bursts of riotous color; a multitude of variations on white, yellow, orange, red, pink, and purple. They are made all the more bright by the darkness hemming them in and the reflection of light in the rain on their petals.

Charles sees and smells their beauty and his hammering heart gentles. Even as his senses are captivated, his emotions turn again to appreciate Raven's forethought. While the garden might be a beautiful array of flowers on the outside, it is clearly a test garden on the inside.

"Raven, how do you come up with things like this?" he asks. Maybe it's simple, but a test garden is just as much a stunning example of Gregor Mendel's work as Charles' middle school pea plants had been. Rose blooms, thorns, and fragrance trump the humble peas with their extravagant displays, however.

"I guess brilliance runs in the family," she smiles as they advance along the paved path to the top of the rise. He agrees with a wink and a squeeze of her hand. Charles can make out a canopy that becomes clearer with every veil of rain they pass through.

When they finally clear the last set of stairs, they are just to the blue canopy's right. Charles can see two duffle bags on the damp grass and a rain coat hooked on one of the aluminum struts. There is a garden bench beneath the canopy and Erik's long body, folded up to fit within its limits.

His shoulders are pillowed against one handrail with two folded towels, chin tucked to sternum, his arms are crossed over his broad chest. His knees are the highest point, stuck in the air like 's currently elusive peak, his bare feet braced against the opposite handrail. His eyes are closed and his chest rises and falls with slow, steady breaths.

"Sweet Jesus," Raven sighs. "It's like he can fall asleep anywhere but his own apartment."

"Maybe the rain on the canopy made him tired?" Charles suggests, but he's looking his fill while Erik isn't awake to see him.

Shirtless though he was the other day when Charles and the magazine people perved on Erik's torso together, it was still a sight broken up by the harsh, black tattoo that dominates his body. A loose, short-sleeve shirt covering his torso now makes sure there's no optical illusion to obscure the breadth of his shoulders in relation to the slimness of his hips. The quiet sight makes it hard to remember his previous anger with Erik or the annoying script left in last night's smoke-scented trousers.

"Maybe," Raven comments while slipping her hand into her pocket. She retrieves a battered smartphone from the denim and swipes her finger across the face. The backlight casts white blue light across her face. "But we have rainy season for like nine months of the year. Probably the adrenaline depletion from six hours under my needles last night."

"How much did you get done?" Charles asks. He tries to make the question sound casual, but Raven knows him well, so the desired result isn't assured.

Seemingly unaware, she taps the face of her phone twice. "Ask him."

Erik's raincoat begins to buzz and one of the pockets glows blue. Raven grabs the coat by its hood and walks it over to Erik. She swings the coat out as close to his head as she can without entering his reach. Even in sleep Erik's face is not serene, Charles has yet to see the line between his eyebrows recede. That doesn't change when his brow furrows and the lines around his eyes deepen. Erik's long hands pull away from his chest and pat at his pockets. Coming up empty-handed, his eyes open and he squints up at the jacket hanging near his head, then past it to Raven.

"You're late," Erik says, hooks his feet under the armrest they were braced on and uses the leverage to sit up straight. Charles doubts Erik knows how unconsciously attractive little things like that are.

Raven hands him the drab coat. "You'll forgive me."

"Double the coffee," Erik grumbles, and swings his long legs over the bench while rubbing at one eye with the heel of his hand. "Double the meth cookies."

He sets the coat aside on the bench; the phone stops buzzing as Raven ends her call. She crouches down to one of the duffle bags and draws the zip down its blunt-toothed track. She reaches within and brings out an electric lantern. It lights the canopy immediately with its cold LED glow the moment she opens it.

Raven sets it aside and then retrieves a wine bottle, plastic containers of sauce and tortellini, a set of silverware, and another, smaller, container filled with chocolate chip cookies. All but the cookie container are set on the damp grass. "One dozen lavender chocolate chip cookies, boss."

Erik accepts the offering in his left hand with a twist of his lips that is both a smile and exasperation rolled up in one. His right hand goes for one corner of the lid and begins to pry it from the container, but then he lets go. He smoothes the plastic back down with a thumb. "Good plan, Raven."

Charles bites his lip at the sight. Not Erik's smile, but the appreciation of the cookies and the secret knowledge of their origin. Raven has addicted her intimidating employer to one of the recipes Charles saved from their late paternal aunt's estate auction. She'd had an obsession with flower-themed foods, French teas, and corgis.

Raven flicks her hair back in mock self-congratulation. "Yeah, I know."

Erik shakes his head and Charles chuckles as Raven preens. Then Erik slips his feet into a pair of sandals and stands up. "I'll be back around nine."

Raven hands him the key ring. "As much as I want you to get some sleep, don't forget about us, okay? Keep your phone on you."

"You must be very tired." Charles wants to shut up, but he also wants to know, wants to see the progress on the tattoo. "Raven said she did six hours of work last night."

Erik shrugs. "I sat ten at a time for my black work."

"Can I see the progress?"

For a moment there is only the sound of the rain on the canopy and the growing chill of evening. Erik's eyes are on him, his body not moving but for his breathing. Raven stands next to Charles, waiting.

Finally, Erik slips the truck keys into his pocket and sets the container of cookies on the bench with the towels. He grabs the edge of his t-shirt's neck and pulls it aside; it's such an over-sized fit that it easily reveals the two dragon heads and the beginning of its torso. The tattoo is dark with pigment, but the colors are indistinct in the lamp's blue-white light.

Charles stares at the dark beast, at the bloodied head that rears back with the unicorn horn in its eye. There's something compelling about it. Where's the unicorn? Why would Raven show a symbol of purity killing one of the dragon heads? Or is the horn, being singular, a symbol of independence or solitude? And if so, is one or the other damaging an aspect of Erik's personality?

"In a day or so it will scab a bit and look terrible," Erik says and releases the fabric to conceal the design again, but the unwounded head still looms over the stretched-out cotton. "You'll have to wear loose clothing like this, too."

"Why wear a shirt at all?" Charles asks and then squawks in indignation as Raven pinches his arm.

"Hypocrite!" she cries, but then winks.

Erik acts as if no question was asked at all. He puts on his raincoat, takes the container of cookies, and heads into the rain with a simple wave on his way. "Nine o'clock."

"Don't eat 'em all, Lehnsherr," Raven says to his back. Then she turns to Charles, eyes and teeth shining slightly blue in the lantern light. "Let's get this picnic started. There are bowls for the pasta and sauce plus I've got some garlic bread in there. The bench should be dry, so we can sit there while we eat."

"We're missing music," Charles responds. He's still a little distracted, watching Erik as he blends in with the darkness beyond the lantern's light. "Shall I find a mutually admired playlist on my phone?"

"No," Raven replies as she digs through the duffels, "that'll kill your battery and I can only take so much classic rock, though I will take that over Erik's latest thing for his German so-called post mortem folk; most of it sounds like a soundtrack for assisted suicide or that cannibal movie, _Ravenous_. I brought a radio if you want to set it to 89.9 on the FM dial, we can listen to classical. Or we can turn on the college station at 98.1 and listen to dueling hipsters."

"As long as you don't force me to listen to Wilco or cannibal folk music," Charles says lightly and crouches down with Raven to find the bowls. "I think classical is probably our best bet. Though a soundtrack of cannibals eating Wilco might be acceptable."

"I knew there was a reason I love you," Raven says with clear approval ringing bright in her tone. She passes him a small radio. "89.9, please."

Before long they are sitting on the garden bench, eating tortellini, drinking wine, and largely ignoring the music they chose. And laughing. Laughing at everything from their pranks on Kurt, to Charles' awful break up stories, to Raven's fight with a professor at SVU that culminated in a triptych of gigantic canvases featuring heavily textured close ups of vaginas and penises.

"Oh God," Charles laughs. "The last time I was in Westchester, those still weren't dry."

"Did I ever tell you how much the paint cost?" Raven groans. "Like thousands of dollars. Just to piss off one person. It's like those stories you hear of people throwing money at somebody to insult them. I could have made a piñata of that jerk out of hundred dollar bills and filled it with silver dollars and it would have been more effective and less expensive."

"Plus beating it apart would have satisfied a performance art requirement _and_ an installation credit," Charles chuckles.

"And been immensely satisfying. Three birds with one cricket bat." Raven shakes her head. "So, speaking of vaginas and penises via my art, are you seeing anybody?"

Charles brings his wine glass up and takes a lingering sip. If there's any topic he doesn't want to talk about, it's his hopeless love life. He takes the glass away from his lips, studies the strange play of the lantern light on the surface of the red and struggles with words.

"It depends on what you mean by seeing," he finally admits. He doesn't look at Raven as he speaks, concentrates on the wine and how it coats the glass as he swirls it. It's a good wine; Sharon taught them well. "If you mean 'having sex with' then, yes, I'm seeing a couple people. If you mean 'having a relationship with' then, no, I broke up with Stuart, hence the 'having sex with' bit."

"Stuart the fireman?" Raven's face, seen through the wineglass bell is a funhouse distortion; much more amusing than the words coming out of her mouth. "Let me guess, he started to smother you?"

"He invited me to his parent's house," Charles snorts. "He wanted to introduce me to his parents, Raven, after dating only one month."

"Wait." Raven drops her fork and holds up one hand in a gesture for halt. "Didn't you tell me his birthday party was going to be at his parents' house? And what do you call the three months of sex that came before the dating, you know, when you were desperately in love? Was that not dating?"

"Are we having this conversation again?" Charles puts the wine glass down, no longer amused by its distortions.

"This doesn't have to be uncomfortable, Charles," Raven says. "Just… I never get to meet any of your lovers. I don't really get to know what they're like before you block them on Facebook. And, I don't know, that Lisbeth lady seemed really smart and witty, if a little self-absorbed."

"Lisbeth's an alcoholic," Charles sighs and places his free hand to his brow to cover his eyes. In hindsight, Lisbeth shared far too many of his mother's bad habits than he would ever confide to Raven. "And she's the one that broke up with me when I told her I loved her."

"Angha! The poet! You met her at her book signing and for Valentine's Day she posted that awesome poem on your Facebook wall!" Raven leans forward and places her hand on Charles' knee; he tries to ignore the warmth of her palms.

"She always wanted to know where I was and what I was doing," Charles says. His head leans further on his fingers, sending pressure down in a steady line to the elbow resting on his knee. "The poem was embarrassingly desperate. Raven, please, let's not."

In response, her fingers travel to the elbow that is digging further into his leg. He feels her eyes on him though his own are trained halfway down his wool sleeve.

"Charles," Raven says quietly, earnestly. "I'm your sister and your friend and I love you. That means you can burden me with your problems. That's what friends are for, even if family isn't."

It's tempting, so tempting to lean on her just the tiniest bit. He doesn't want to do it; she's the one that needs him, not the other way around. But nobody else would ever understand, much less be allowed to see him so weak, so Charles tells himself it's okay for just a minute. As long as there's a limit, he can do it. He checks his watch, sets aside his wine glass, and removes the weight from his knee.

"The worst is after the dinner parties," he confesses quietly. "I'm surrounded by people in my flat; the noise and the wine and the conversation and everything is so good. Sometimes somebody stays the night and that prolongs the resumption of silence. Sometimes I wake up and there's a warm person next to me, breathing softly. But once they're gone… I don't know. It's worse than if they were never there at all."

"Sometimes," Raven says, "the worst thing after Brian died was the silence. Sharon could be in the same room as I and never say a thing, never look at me, even when I would cry. Is it like that?"

Ravens palms are warm, but her fingers are cold. He wraps her hands in his and again leans his head down, this time on the mutual support of their joined hands. "It's like there's this silent, open space within me that is never filled. I don't know how long it's been there, maybe always, but I finally noticed it when I left for University."

Raven leans her forehead against the top of his bowed head and whispers, "We need to talk more, be around for each other more. Could you maybe come stay in Portland for summer recess?"

"What, at your loft with the DJ and Spanish model?"

"Sean and Janos," Raven huffs, a warm breath that dishevels his fringe. "Janos and his Russian boyfriend are having some issues. You might have a chance to grab some extremely hot Spanish ass on the rebound. If he wasn't exclusively gay I might have jumped him a couple times before I met Hank."

"I wouldn't mind seeing the Columbia gorge," Charles muses, ignoring Raven's attempt to appeal to his libido, "and Multnomah Falls."

"Erik could take you to the falls; he runs up the damn thing often enough," Raven murmurs into his hair with distinct disgust. "The weather here's much nicer than Oxford during summer. You should come."

"Maybe." Charles glances at his watch; it's been more than two minutes. He squeezes her hands once more and releases his hold. "Maybe, but no promises."

* * *

Erik would normally pass time down at Morpho chatting a little with Darwin or Kitty about activism, art, or business, but Saturday nights are open mic night at the vegan café. Darwin is exceptionally talented at marketing the event to hipsters and dyed-in-the-wool counterculture participants. The resulting crowd is huge and occasionally rowdy; though most people are committed to nonviolence. Erik isn't good with loud noises or crowds, but he's exceptionally talented at violence, so even though it is early yet, he doesn't attempt to wade inside to get coffee.

He lets himself into Quicksilver and goes over Raven's handwritten schedule, double checks the autoclave, and sets his work space up for a client that will be coming in at 10am. He'll be doing touchup work on a tattoo that lost ink during an infection. Raven has already printed out another copy of their tattoo aftercare sheet, but this time she's highlighted all the points specifically related to avoiding infections.

At noon he has a second consultation to finalize a design and at 2pm he has a young woman coming in for consultation about a nautical-themed back piece. At 4pm he's got five hours blocked off for a detailed forearm piece. Sunday will be a busy day for him, but Raven has rescheduled herself for a light day: only one consultation. He's amused to see _No walk-ins!_ underlined three times at the top of the page. Maybe she's hoping she can leave early to see Charles off.

In anticipation of her possible absence, he retrieves his 'NO sign' from where it hangs near his desk. It's a tin sign he painstakingly painted back when he opened his shop. The text is the Frakture he learned as a schoolboy in Germany, with pin-striped embellishments and flourishes.

The NO sign reports a list of services and styles Erik refuses to render and, before Raven started work with him, used to hang on his door every day. It isn't an all-inclusive list, but hits all the usual suspects such as no hate imagery and no gang-related imagery. It goes on to include other subject matter he won't do; no Polynesian or other tribal designs on non-native people, no flash art, no copies, no homage, no sports-related imagery. Before going on to list specific body parts he won't work on; no eyes, no mucous membranes nor anything near them, no faces. He's made exceptions to a few of his NOs, but they are rare rather than the rule.

Raven hates the sign, but Erik hates answering the same questions over-and-over, so he hangs it when she's not there to compromise and answer the questions for him.

Erik is strong-willed enough to only eat one of the chocolate chip, lavender cookies as he leafs through the sketches that have led up to his current projects. He doesn't usually have a sweet tooth; sweets remind him too much of his parents, particularly the honey-drenched apple latkes his mother used to make for Rosh Hashanah. The lavender is unusual enough that it fails to conjure ghosts from his days prior to Portland.

When he's done, he places the plastic box on the bench between his small refrigerator and the steel sink he installed the winter prior. The tattoo shop is his baby and he's always looking for ways to improve it. The cookies make him think a toaster oven might be the next addition.

The rain has not let up nor gotten heavier by the time he leaves to pick Raven and Charles up from the Rose Garden. Erik doesn't mind; rain always seems to suit his mood. On the way to the garden he finds himself thinking about the touchup he'll be doing in the morning. The touchup leads him to the aftercare sheet again, and that brings him to Charles. What would the best tattoo placement for a professor be? Would Charles have somebody to help him with aftercare or will it need to be easily accessible?

From there it isn't hard to mentally strip Charles of his suit and begin to block off portions of his body with shapes, like living ink traveling over contour to fleshy contour. It's a common method Erik uses to plan the shapes and placements of his designs. He's seen enough, tattooed enough, sexual and sexualized portions of the human body that thinking of people naked rarely turns his crank.

But where he usually thinks of a client's body as an upright structure, he imagines Charles' as reclined. He's never imagined moving the constantly changing blocking shapes across a client's skin by hand, but he does that, too. And where there shouldn't be a sense of sensation, Erik can feel heat and skin under his imaginary fingertips. He can even feel the rush of blood and the pins and needles of lust creeping into his cock, putting pressure on his balls.

The car behind Erik honks at him for sitting at a green light. Startled from his daydream, he swears and puts the truck back in gear and takes off. He continues to swear, because not only is he fantasizing about Raven's brother, but he's also just gotten himself half hard over him. Since it's been a few months since he's gotten laid and a week since he's jerked off, he dismisses thoughts of Charles as biological needs.

Thoroughly annoyed with his lapse of control, he lifts his hips up to rearrange his cock so it bears a more comfortable left within his boxer briefs. The last thing he needs is to want to fuck Raven's brother. Despite Raven's words about Charles respecting him and his opinion, Erik considered him forbidden fruit the moment he discovered the two were related; adopted or not.

By the time he's parked and walking through the rain toward the canopy, he's almost reached zero from a slow count backwards from ten. He's five minutes early, but experience should lead Raven to expect that from him.

The light from Raven's camping lantern is moving across Raven and Charles' bodies as they pack. The play of the light across them and the shadows they cast spark his recent imaginings and he again thinks of the best way to block out the tattoo shape, only without the nakedness.

The rain covers the sound of his arrival, so he stands still, rain pattering soothingly on his hood and with tiny, gentle concussions on the top of his feet. He watches from the wet and the dark and listens to the sound and pitch of their conversation. It reminds him of something he once had, someone he once loved, a life that is gone; dust in the wind.

Erik starts forward again, shaking his head within the hood to clear away the true dark; the dark of night can't begin to compare. True dark follows violence, noise, and a flurry of sensation just beyond one's fingertips.

They've almost finished packing; Raven is stuffing the last towel into the one unzipped duffel bag. She's telling Charles about her plan to dye her hair red next week and he's saying how lovely the blond is, but that he's sure to take equally to red.

"I'll get the canopy," Erik says as a greeting. The lantern's light moves over him but he doesn't feel illuminated. Raven and Charles startle, but Erik is already moving toward the center of the shelter to unhook the lantern. He sets it on the ground and then reaches back up to collapse the canopy's top. The hood of his rain coat slips off with the swivel of his chest and arms.

"Where'd you come from?" Raven asks and picks the lantern back up again. She holds it near his hands so he can better see his work.

"The shop." Erik moves to the perimeter of the aluminum frame to unhook the sandbags he usually keeps in the back of the Frontier: a habit he brought with him from New York. "I saw a lot of eraser dust and correction tape in tomorrow's schedule. You want some time off?"

"Yeah," she says sheepishly. The plea comes with a display of her best puppy dog eyes. "Charles has a plane to catch tomorrow night and I was hoping to see him off."

"If it's no trouble," Charles cuts in. He's moved to the opposite side of the canopy to remove the other two sandbags.

"Do you want the first half or the second half of the day?" Erik asks. He never asks Raven to work the twelve-hour days he often has her schedule for him. "As long as you're the only one driving, you can take the truck."

"Charles gets out at two, so second half? He has to be at the airport by seven. I can get you dinner and be back to help with clean up and close after your four o'clock."

Erik nods. "You won't have to hurry back; that one might take longer than I quoted."

"What kind of hours do you usually work?" Charles asks, his voice starts bright in curiosity, but is subdued by the last word. Erik's not sure what to make of it.

"As many as I want." He just happens to like a lot of them. "I don't take walk-ins, so I can set my own hours. Raven's free to work as many as she wants as long as she's there when I need her."

Raven sets down the lamp again and hefts one of the duffels. She comes over to Erik as he works. With the usual ease that comes with their friendship, she sticks her hand in his raincoat to fish out the truck keys. "What he's not saying is that he needs me desperately because he works roughly sixty-hour weeks."

"Front right," Erik says and Raven's hand goes up the loose shirt and down his pants pocket. She takes the keys out with one hand and reaches up to smack his shoulder with the other.

"I'll be right back. Don't dump the rain in the canopy all over Charles, okay?"

Erik shrugs. "Don't get mugged."

She pulls her hood up and heads out into the rain. Charles moves to follow her, but Erik shakes his head. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Charles snaps, exasperated. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated beyond what the low light calls for.

"Don't follow her to protect her from my facetious muggers." Erik begins collapsing the frame at each of the corners. "She's a big girl."

He sees the proverbial hackles rise along Charles' back in response; Erik finds himself inordinately pleased. "Who are you to keep telling me how to behave around my sister? You've never said you have one of your own."

"You're right," Erik says without looking at Charles. He'd like to look up from his work, just to see what sort of affect his words have, but he wants to get the frame back to Darwin before the crowd gets thicker at Morpho. "I never said. But even without a sister I know the difference between a sibling and a parent."

Erik hears Charles take in a breath to respond, but the expected repartee never comes. Though he wants to keep to himself, Erik takes a glance over at Raven's overbearing brother. Charles' fists are back in his trouser pockets, his stance again solidly defensive. His bright eyes squint under an intense look of concentration, of which Erik finds himself the focus.

"You." Charles says, his voice solid and unyielding as steel. "Are you aware what an asshole you are?"

It takes more will power than Erik thought to hold back a smirk. Maybe Raven is right; maybe he does get under Charles' skin. He's sure Raven mentioned it because she wants him to like her brother, but maybe there could be something more.

No, he reminds himself, Raven's brother is off limits. Not just because he's her brother but for the same reason Raven doesn't want to tattoo him. The last thing he wants is for the tattoo to become an eternal memorial of a one-night stand or an awkward seduction.

Regardless of Erik's nonresponse, Charles forges on. "Are you trying to make me mad? Are you taking advantage of the tension between my sister and me for sport?"

_Good question_, Erik thinks. But even if he is, Charles' self-centeredness is showing and opens him up enough for Erik to make another jab. "You think I'm using Raven to make you angry? That's an impressive attempt to reframe the argument to cut her out of it."

"You aren't denying," Charles challenges quietly.

Erik shrugs; he feels the loose cotton stick a bit on his tattoo in the process. "Is there a reason you want to think this is about you and I rather than about you and Raven?"

His hands stay in his pockets, still balled into fists, but Charles advances, in Erik's rain boots no less, until his nose is mere inches from Erik's chin. Charles moistens his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. "You should be aware that I am the type of person to consider all possible motives. It's what makes me a good scientist."

Without consciously thinking about it, Erik releases the aluminum frame. His hands curl into fists, one of which catches around a handful of Charles' vest. He feels it in him, the roiling desire to do more. To either use the fist holding Charles to keep him in place while the other fist comes into repeated and violent connection with his puckish face or to drag him forward into something far more disturbing. It's all horribly, horribly wrong either way, but he knows for certain if he starts with violence he'll end up back behind bars. This is why Erik contents himself with masturbation and one-night stands. This is why he avoids relationships; because deep down, he suspects he's a monster.

Later, he will castigate himself and tell himself he was responding to Charles' proximity, his fists digging into his trousers, and the intense glare in Charles' eyes, or maybe the wide span of his pupils and brief moistening of Charles' lips. Now, Erik carefully, slowly, uncurls his fingers from Charles' vest and drags his eyes from the incredulous glare.

He turns stiffly back to his work, making a point to angle his body away from Charles'. "Consider me aware."

Charles doesn't change his stance, though his hands come out of his pockets and hover in loose fists above his thighs. The rain hitting the plastic above their heads doesn't drown out the tension that reigns between them for several tense seconds. It's only interrupted by the approaching sounds of Raven's purple boots as she nears the canopy.

"No," Charles finally huffs, though he takes a healthy backward step in the process. "No, I'm not going to pretend that you didn't just do that."

"Good," Erik replies. "I wouldn't want to waste the moment."

Raven's proximity prevents Charles from saying more. With her help, it takes little time to pack the blue plastic up and for Erik to return the frame to its compact size. They stow the equipment and pack Raven into the Frontier's crampt half cab. She keeps the mood lively by talking to Charles after her attempts to draw Erik in fail. Erik hardly notices them, so caught up in counting, breathing, and trying to look normal

Running on autopilot, Erik drops Charles off first and then Raven, but takes the canopy back to his apartment rather than risk further incident with the throng at Morpho. Erik strips to his boxers before walking around his loft, opening all the windows a few inches to get cold, humid air circulating. The scent of rain and old incense swirls around the place while he tends his tattoo. It's still smooth, but he anticipates the dragon will be a bit scabbed or flaking by tomorrow. The injured head seems more appropriate tonight.

He retrieves a box of sandalwood incense, a plate for ashes, and a stale pack of cigarettes from the same kitchen cabinet. Apartment lit by his laptop's backlight and the tiny tips of sandalwood sticks and a cigarette, Erik ends the evening on his couch. By morning, the smell of cigarettes will overpower the incense and his tattoo will itch.

* * *

Back in his hotel room, Charles charges immediately into the bathroom, strips the layers of his suit off and leaves them in haphazard heaps. He sets the shower to full blast and throws himself immediately within the pounding spray to scour unwanted lust from his mind and blood stream. Attraction to the worst possible candidate is so typical of him he wants to bash his fists against the shower's tiles.

Charles can't decide if it's better to have the water burning hot or ice cold. Thoughtlessly, he opts for cold and ends up with a sensation akin to Portland's rain. When the frigid water doesn't do in his hard on, he takes his cock in hand and enjoys the juxtaposition of cold water on heated skin. Sometimes the best way to get rid of an unwanted erection is just to ride it out.

As he jerks viciously at his cock, he emphatically does not imagine an amorous struggle with a tall, tattooed man in the rain. Doesn't lift his right foot onto the bath's edge so he can thrust into the tight squeeze of his left hand and comfortably finger himself with the right. Doesn't imagine that man fucking him over the park bench in the rain, in the muddy grass, or on the path. He certainly doesn't come so hard in the shower that his balls ache spectacularly with the clench of it. Nor does he collapse, exhausted and still wet, on his bed only moments later.

But Charles does dream, because he can forget those. Just like he will try to forget how alone he is in the morning.


	4. St Charles

_I don't know if Kitty Pryde's Jewish background is Ashkenazi, Mizrahi or Sephardic, but I've gone with Rhodesli Sephardic to reflect Portland's Rhodesli community._ _Also, warning, there's a bit of violence and self harm in this chapter._

* * *

_St. Charles_

As is his routine, Erik goes to his crossfit class before heading in to Quicksilver. If he's even more intense than usual, nobody in the reclaimed space mentions it. He stops by Morpho on the way to give Darwin back the canopy and buy an Americano. It's almost 7am and Morpho already has people sitting outside talking and smoking. They avoid the sporadic drizzle by taking up the line of mismatched chairs that span the shop's faded green awning. More than a few of Morpho's regulars look like their Saturday night has run into Sunday morning. Most are smoking hand-rolled cigarettes.

The secondhand smoke activates Erik's salivary glands; he'd really like a good cigarette after a night spent smoking old tobacco on his couch. The question is whether or not it would be worth hearing from Raven about it after he showers and brushes his teeth.

He walks past the assembly of artists and hipsters, anarchists and hacktivists, and into Morpho's welcoming atmosphere. There's a collection of art on the wall that Darwin has been raving about from an artist out of the Detroit area. Erik likes the color, organic shapes, and commentary on body image the work represents. If the artist is amenable, he wouldn't mind having her work in his gallery space, though he usually keeps his walls open to local artists or traveling tattooists.

There's a short queue for the counter, but Kitty still grins at him when he steps to the back of it with the canopy under his arm. He's sure she'd wave if her hands weren't full frothing non-dairy milk.

"Good morning, Erik!" she chirps. If he were ten years younger he might be smitten, but he's fifteen years older so he secretly finds her adorable, like a kid sister he never had. "Darwin's in the storage room, so you can just take that straight back."

He nods wordlessly and heads to the storage room to the left of the unisex toilets. He finds Darwin inside the room counting packs of takeout cups. Darwin doesn't glance over, but he nods: Kitty's greeting was loud enough that pleasantries are largely unnecessary. "Hey there Erik, you have a bad night?"

"No," Erik lies immediately. In the next instant he damns Darwin's precise insights. Erik reaches for a little added misdirection. "You know I don't like crowds."

The tall, thin man makes a mark on his notepad and then finally looks at Erik. Darwin is one of the few people in the area that is tall enough to look into Erik's eyes comfortably and he does so with an ease that says that even with a height disparity he'd do it anyway.

"Brother, you know you reek of sweat and cigarettes," Darwin says, his dark eyes frank. "But whatever, I know how you are."

"Where do you want this?" Erik's glad that Darwin's indicated that he won't pry; it always puts him on the defensive even when he knows it's well-meaning. Years of Moira hounding him for detailed recitations of where he was planning to go and where he'd been have usurped those of his mother's well-meant nagging. Now inquiries, especially dogged ones, are deeply aggravating.

Darwin gestures to the far corner of the dimly lit room. "I hope Raven had a good night with her brother, at least."

"They must have." Both of them are thin, but it's still a bit of a trick to slip by Darwin with the canopy frame and cover. It's awkward; as he sidesteps past the bagged frame bumps his healing tattoo which renews the itching it's been doing all morning. "They were both intact when I picked them up. I had a disagreement with her brother, though."

Erik hears Darwin 'hmm' but say nothing else. Erik is reminded how much he appreciates having the level-headed man as a friend and a business neighbor.

He sets the canopy down in the indicated corner and looks around the small room. Darwin and Alex built most of the shelving; it's good solid work. The lighting, however, is left over from the previous occupant and is a work in progress. They've set money aside for improving the seating area's exterior and for eventually buying the space next to them so they can expand. The room needs better lighting, but the customer area has priority.

"I can do the lighting in here if you want," Erik offers. He wouldn't normally offer, but he values Darwin and even his crew of eccentric baristas.

"You an electrician, too?" Darwin's thoughtful expression turns to mischief. "You certainly are a jack of all trades, Lehnsherr."

"I had some vocational training back in New York," Erik shrugs. He's disinclined to say where and how he got the training. "Just pick out what you want and I'll put it in for you."

"Sounds like you're angling for a few months of free watered down espresso," Darwin laughs. "When you going to start drinking espresso like all the big kids?"

Erik shrugs. "I like having something I can keep drinking. Espresso's good, but like any shot the effect lasts longer than the taste."

"Yeah," Darwin smiles, "I don't want to see you after six shots of espresso anyway. I have this feeling you'd tear the place apart or something. Alex after six is an unholy terror and you two kids share a lot of traits."

Erik nods, a hint of a snort escaping him at the idea of Darwin's partner hopped up on caffeine. It's probably happened more than once. "Actually, it isn't a coffee exchange I have in mind. Raven's doing her journeyman piece and I think that justifies a show for her work. You interested in arranging a Last Thursday event?"

"I do all your Last Thursdays billings," Darwin chuckles and leans back against the wall. "Which one? July or August, maybe September? Too late for June, man, if you want it done right."

Last Thursdays are usually a chaotic affair along Alberta Street, but their corner is far enough away from the street festival atmosphere that street performers and the massive crowds don't lap up against their walls. Erik is profoundly grateful for that; the noise and unpredictability of the massive crowds agitate him like nothing else. The few times he's found himself in the area on a Last Thursday made him feel like a bottle of nitroglycerine, just waiting for the jostle that would lead to an explosion.

"I'll send her down to you to work out details later this week," Erik replies and leans one shoulder against the same wall. "I prefer July, but it'll be up to her how she wants to do it. If you have a line on a music act, I might risk our landlady's wrath and get the roof set up."

Both Darwin's eyebrows rise at that. "Been too long since we had a rooftop party. Let me think about it."

Erik nods and begins to push away from the wall, but Darwin holds a hand up and Erik subsides again. "Actually, you can still angle for that coffee; I'd like somebody to paint our front door with our name and hours. You still pin striping?"

"As long as you don't tell the women at Triple Cha lingerie," Erik agrees. "I charged them hourly for their display window."

"Erik," Darwin drawls, mischief alive in his rich brown eyes, "I somehow doubt the ladies down the street thought they could pay you with lingerie and vibrators."

Darwin laughs when Erik shakes his head. He twirls his pencil once and places it behind his ear so he can hold his dark hand out. "Done deal?"

Erik acquiesces and takes Darwin's hand in his for a deal-binding shake. "Done. When Raven comes down later," Erik continues, sliding back past Darwin, "give her a mock up of your window so I can plan for it. As for the lighting, my Monday and Tuesday mornings are usually open."

Kitty has his coffee in a cup with his name on it plus merry flowers and happy faces drawn all over the paper surface. There's also a brown paper bag waiting for him when he comes out. Kitty has her sketchbook on the counter since there aren't any customers waiting. Erik nods at her, ignores the cup's fresh illustrations for the doodles she's drawn on the wrist of her long sleeved undershirt.

"My mom got a new boyo recipe," she says without preamble. "And she was really impatient to try it out. Not that I'm complaining 'cause they're pretty awesome."

Most of the Jews Erik runs into in Portland are descendants of Sephardic diaspora that left Rhodes before and during the Shoah. Kitty has ancestors that go back a hundred years in Portland and multiple centuries in the former Ottoman Empire. She also has a mother that reminds him painfully of his own with her tough, but overwhelming love.

Erik eyes the bag of spinach pastries suspiciously; they're a Rhodesli specialty Kitty's mother usually only makes for high holidays. "Those aren't meant to woo me into going to Ahavath Achim, are they? I told her I'm not visiting any congregation of any kind."

Kitty rolls her hazel eyes and crosses her arms under her chest. "You know my mom sees your atheism through a dark glass. Anyway, no, the boyos are just more of her gastronomic affection."

It's been a year and it's still hard to accept Kitty's mother's gifts; he remembers her shocked expression when she looked at his business card. Kitty had said he was an artist and Erik had said he was a small business owner. With his tattoos covered, she likely had thought he was a good candidate for somebody's daughter. Accordingly, she saw the tattoo part of 'Quicksilver Tattoos' and was caught flat-footed. The memory of the deep lines of censure and dismay are as indelible as any of his tattoos, written as they were in the geography of her face.

Erik takes the coffee and reaches for her sketchbook. With a mad grin she hands him the Sharpie she uses to write names, and draw flowers, on customer cups. "Lockheed, okay?"

"You and that iguana," Erik snorts, but he takes the marker and draws a quick caricature of the lizard inside a coffee cup, his tail and his head and claws hanging over the edge. The cup is at an angle, tipping precariously, the moment before an inevitable spill. As a final touch, he writes Kitty's name in a messy scrawl on the cup, mimicking her handwriting.

"I wish I could do it," she says the moment he caps the marker. He knows what she means, what she's going to say, before the sound escapes her. Her olive-skinned hands reach out and turn the sketchbook around so she can better look at the drawing. A wistful smile adorns Kitty's young face. Her eyes follow the marker's inked path across the page. Finally, the thought reaches her mouth, "Get a tattoo."

There's nothing to say that he hasn't already said to her on this topic; it's an old conversation they've had in the coffee house, up in Quicksilver's gallery space, and out around the neighborhood. He's gone so far as to draw her mother's horrified expression in the sketchbook to drive the point home.

He says nothing about it, but flips the cover of her sketchbook over to close on her fingers. The bag of boyos is easy to lift off the counter after that. "Give your mother my thanks."

Kitty deflates, and darts out a hand to the one he has around the coffee cup. Her eyes are big and sad, her mouth a repentant press of lips. "I'll tell her."

Instead of going back to his place to shower, Erik goes around the corner and up the stairs to Quicksilver. The shop's shower is small; just a space originally intended to house a mop and bucket and the like, but he couldn't leave it alone. He sets the paper bag on the container of cookies and hits the finished bathroom.

The water takes a few moments to come out warm; he lets it run as hot as he can stand. He strips in the open hallway opposite the sink and half-size refrigerator while the water warms. The dragon tattoo is flaking more than scabbing; it doesn't look bad at all. He's mindful of it when he steps into the steaming spray and proceeds to scrub the rest of his skin and scalp with hard motions.

The problem with his showering method is the sensitivity awakened in his skin once he's scoured it. Sensitivity that does him no good once he begins to soap up the nooks and crannies of his ass and cock. Annoyed, but ultimately accepting of his body's desires, he sets aside the soap and rough, natural sponge he was using and sweeps his left hand up his hardening cock. Just a quick wank to relieve the pressure, he thinks.

It proves to be the catalyst needed to open up the wealth of memory that's been lingering around his rough edges all morning. Drugged edges of lust feed him the texture of the fabric in his fist last night: smooth, silky, expensive. The cast of Charles' particularly blue eyes: wide pupils, dark in the cold LED light, brow low with anger. The movement of his sensual lips: the run of his tongue tip as it pierced their seam and swept the span.

Other than the idiocy with Raven, it's been years since Erik's felt chemistry with anyone and to feel that heavy warmth triggered by her brother, her patronizing, smothering, classist brother, is disconcerting. Rejection rises sudden and phoenix-like from his gut on wings of consuming fury.

Erik hears the collision, feels the tremble all the way to the floor, sees the rattle of the shower's glass door, before he feels any pain at all. The skin over his knuckles burns like a fresh tattoo under the hot water, the knuckles themselves radiate pain. Even his wrist aches from the impact of his fist against the shower wall.

The wall is plastic over drywall; it looks dented. There are a few spots of thin skin sticking to the surface. He's just glad he used his right hand and not the left which is gripping his cock. Then he remembers he has a full day of work ahead of him that is heavily dependent on his wrist.

He starts jerking off anyway. His left hand delivers swift, perfunctory strokes with no mind for prolonging pleasure. Forget it. Just get the job done, he thinks, and bring on the endorphins.

For several minutes he courts the obliteration of orgasm and pleasure comes close while he fucks his hand, but repeatedly falls away. After a few fruitless minutes, his cock starts to lose its stiffness. Completion is nowhere near, though his balls and groin ache with tension. Swearing again, he releases his uncooperative flesh and slaps the water off.

Sexual frustration isn't new; there have been other times in the past when he couldn't get off, but it's been more than a year since the last time. It's his frustration with the situation; rejection of something he feels helpless to avoid. He wants to punch the wall again, but this time he recognizes the anger is there and can defuse the situation before he makes things worse.

Before leaving the shower, he stands quietly in the stall and tilts his head back and holds his hands open, palms out at his sides. He breathes. He remembers his counselor, her calm, droning voice, and breathes the way she instructed him.

It takes a while for his heart rate to slow, but he waits; he doesn't want to lose the control he's taken back over the years. As soon as his heart rate begins to subside, he steps out of the stall and dries off. Towel tied around his waist, he leaves the bathroom and immediately dumps his Americano in the sink; the last thing he needs is caffeine constricting his veins.

He stalks through the gallery space to the work area's shelves and pauses to pick through his incense collection for the box of aloes wood and a lighter. With those in his hands, he retreats to the bare walls and threadbare rug of the back room. There's only the one window but he opens it and sets the incense up in the sill where a wooden dish filled with sand and ashes expects him.

A practiced flick of his thumb on the lighter's wheel brings its flame alive. He touches it to a bundle of five sticks and places them in the sand. Leaving the box and lighter on the sill with the dish, Erik backs away and settles down cross-legged on the floor. The cool air and incense smoke drift over him as he begins the breathing exercises once more.

It isn't much past 9:30 when Raven finds him; she wakes him gently with his phone from the backroom doorway. Once again, he's glad he took a chance on the SVA dropout; he's thankful he has her in his life despite the trouble she's unwittingly brought into his careful structure.

She doesn't ask why he's sleeping on the floor with just a towel around his waist or why his right hand's knuckles are skinned. This isn't the first time she's found him asleep in his back room with bruised knuckles or worse. He has no intention of telling her that this time it isn't from his crossfit class or the punching bag in his loft.

It's a good thing he keeps a change of clothing at the shop, she says. He shrugs, but agrees verbally when his 10 o'clock touchup client shows up fifteen minutes early.

...

Charles has all his bags packed for his noon checkout and is wearing his last clean suit. He's sitting next to the picture window of his hotel room blankly staring at the WillametteRiver. It isn't raining, but there's still heavy cloud cover. If not for the West Hills' greenery the whole cityscape would be an uninspiring grey.

At his feet is a folded Brooks Brothers shopping bag, in his hands is a rain boot which is only a little worn down at the heel and ball of foot. His thumbs tap a haphazard beat out on the rubber sole. If it were the staccato background to a song, Charles would call it the discontented tango.

He has a vague recollection of dreams from last night, but they're more feelings than pictures. Charles thanks his subconscious for having a modicum of decency in that regard. If only he could say the same for the twinges his body keeps telegraphing to his brain. His groin aches distantly from his shower and his ass is vaguely uncomfortable from fingering himself: water is rarely suitable lubrication.

Leaving Portland will be both a relief and a pain. The silence of Raven's absence in his daily life is always hard, though he's loath to admit it. When she visits, they always end up sleeping together in his bed; arms tangled around one another, sometimes her hair in his face, but always touching like they've roped one another in with spiritual umbilical cords. He doesn't really want to share their womb with her brilliant boyfriend; it's empty enough as it is.

In Oxford he's always looking for similar ties and sooner or later he finds them ill-fitting. Too loose or too constrictive; sometimes one becomes the other. Thus far he shares no similar space with anyone. He has many acquaintances, a Facebook with nearly a thousand connections. A few of those connections he's even close to, but nothing like the openness he has with Raven. None of the responsibility he feels for her, either.

Later today he'll board another plane and leave her behind; the sister who has always been his unexpected, constant gift.

Later today he'll board a plane and leave behind a conundrum, too. He can feel the rough edges of the twine that represents Erik Lehnsherr, or maybe he isn't the temptation of earthen hemp, but the heated scales of constricting coils.

"Don't romanticize it," Charles whispers to the sinuous river beyond the glass, "he's an ass and you always fall for the assholes. Not that he even has much of an ass."

Annoyed, his fingers curl and bring his fingernails into scraping contact with the boot's rubber. He reminds himself how patronizing Erik is, how rude, how his wide mouth rarely opens onto pleasant words. How badly he wanted to silence him with kisses or punch him the moment Erik's long-fingered hand had curled around Charles' vest.

Charles rears his right arm back and slings it forward with every ounce of strength his boxing days have provided him. The boot narrowly misses the hotel room's entertainment center. It hits the wall, likely startling his neighbors, and rebounds onto the floor near his suit case and garment bag. Charles glares at the second boot by his feet; he feels no sympathy or remorse for throwing the first and he doubts he'll feel any if he throws this one, too. But he won't, because he's in control and he knows just exactly what he'll do with it.

The last of his day is a blur, though he's sharp as ever for his colleague's seminar. It goes well even if he's distracted with a myriad of thoughts about Raven, her boyfriend, and her mentor's sharp words. What could he expect from somebody that comes from such a coarse background, though? What kind of person overlooks one's heritage and goes into a trade that pierces skin and spills blood, that makes permanent marks on living bodies? What does Raven see in him?

Raven seems happy, but he still doesn't understand how she can be satisfied with an art form that's an elevated form of butchery. Despite the sheer cheek involved with her huge reproductive triptych, he's always thought fine art was better suited to her. Perhaps that's where Hank comes in. Raven has always been smart and quick-witted; she needs intellectual challenges and in Charles' absence, she has Hank to provide her mental stimulation. Erik might know things, he might be knowledgeable, but there's danger in mistaking knowledge for intelligence.

The seminar runs a little after two. Everyone who has imminent flights to catch disperse amid hopes to see colleagues soon and excitement in continuing new, and renewing old, relations over convenient mediums. Charles loses himself in the press of the remaining intellectuals. This is where he feels the most alive; interacting with others, bouncing ideas about, challenging and being challenged in turn.

In these circles Charles creates a safe and buoyant atmosphere with his charm, quick wit, and his shameless ability to stoop to using horrible genetics jokes that invite people to not only laugh with him, but at him. He's often said to be the life of the party and as such, he has a gravity that many orbit around. But sometimes he thinks he exerts himself so because without the party, he doesn't feel alive.

Once again, it's up to Raven to find him and extract him from a bevy of scholarly acquaintances. This time she wears a gauzy scarf and a tight, green t-shirt with a white screen-print depicting a skull vomiting intestines. The shirt sleeves are long enough to cover the snakes on her arms.

"Is this one of your drawings?" he asks, laughing, because the screen-print subject matter might be disgusting, but it isn't etched into her skin.

She slips her arm around his and bumps her hip into him affectionately. "Nope, it's one of Erik's. Next time Darwin and Erik get drunk and decide to do some screen prints I'll get in on it and make you something."

"You have a friend named Darwin?" Charles asks as they head for the front lobby's baggage room. He tries not to think about Erik and the presence of his art on his sister's body. There've already been a few uncomfortable hints that the two might have dated and, for the sake of his sanity, he doesn't want any further evidence.

Raven nods merrily. "Yep. It's his nickname because he's a survivor. He owns the vegan café we're always going to. He used to be a cab driver, then he owned a food cart with his partner Alex. They saved up and bought the space for the café five years ago."

She pauses in her story as Charles claims his baggage and then they head outside to Erik's black truck.

"Darwin's been a galvanizing force in the community and a stabilizing one, too. Morpho, Triple Cha lingerie, and the four-floor indie art gallery across from them are the cornerstones of our area. Erik and the letterpress shop below Quicksilver came in a little later. The bunch of them are kind of the tastemakers in our corner of the neighborhood."

That's certainly some food for thought, Charles thinks. Perhaps with a gallery of such size so close, Raven might have a chance for a big show. Even if her work is in the more disreputable side of the art world, sometimes such things are elevated. It gives him a little hope for her and brings a small smile to his lips.

The rain has eased back to a mere spitting; not enough to warrant running to the truck. They walk together with Charles' rolling suitcase and garment bag of suits and together they load them in the Frontier's half cab.

The drive to the airport is filled with idle chitchat, mostly Charles telling Raven about people he saw over the last few days. It gets more serious when they arrive at PDX and Raven asks him if he's thought about spending a couple weeks of the summer recess in Portland.

"C'mon," Raven wheedles, "even if there's no Spanish model ass in it for you, Janos and I have awesome taste in wine. Janos is really good at mixing drinks and Sean's an amazing DJ. You get to stay with me in our drafty, hipster loft. You and Hank can get to know each other better. And you and Erik can better collaborate on your tattoo. It'll be perfect."

A first Charles just stares at Raven and the incongruence that just flew out of her mouth. Knowing her, she's said everything exactly the way she meant to, slyly putting disturbing notions right alongside pleasant ones as if there should be no distinguishing between them. He has no intention of letting her frame things that way. But Charles doesn't want to talk about Erik, either, because Raven is too smart for her own good and he desperately doesn't want her to figure him out until after he's left. He looks down at the Brooks Brothers bag and sighs.

"I hope you understand that getting to know Hank better doesn't equate me liking or approving of him more than I already do." Charles looks up again to see her expression to fall even as he says it. When her face falls, he sees it in every line that forms and deepens around her eyes and mouth. "He's intelligent, there's no question of that, but I know that intelligence alone isn't going to satisfy you. You're an extrovert Raven; you need the late nights and the excitement just as much as I do. You'll wear him out eventually."

Eyes still on her, he sees her chest rise as her lungs fill. "Charles, why don't you just hold off on all this white knight, big brother, bullshit until he and I have at least lived together? His introversion is actually really grounding. And, yes, I like late nights, but when I sleep late, that give him the quiet mornings he wants. So it works when he stays here with me and when I go stay with him."

"You say that now," Charles sighs, "but I'm just trying to save you the—

"Quit trying to save me," Raven sighs.

"—time and trouble of discovering it on your own. Believe me, I've cocked things up—

"And you'll keep doing it."

"—often enough. I want you to learn from my mistakes, not repeat them."

"I want to live my own life," Raven says in a loud voice. She's already parked and turned off the engine, but now she just sits, staring straight forward in the driver's seat. "You fuck yours up all you want, but let me fuck up my own by myself."

Charles takes a breath to continue the argument but Raven shakes her head viciously. "No, Charles, no. We've only a few hours left together until who knows when. Don't fuck it up with all this patronizing, big brother crap. I don't really remember much of Brian and Sharon was a shit mother, but I don't need them anymore than I need the biological ones that got rid of me. And I don't need an older brother, either."

She lets go of the steering wheel and turns to Charles with a bleak, little smile. At the mention of her biological parentage, Charles' discerning gaze focuses on her smile, looks for the silvery traces on and above her lip that most people never notice. It's hiding under her usual foundation and lipstick. "I just need a friend. You're my friend, Charles."

At her words and the sad look in her eyes, his shoulders slump and the fight leaves him with a tired sigh. They have only three more hours before he needs to go through security and catch his flight to Vancouver. He doesn't want to part from her on such a sour note.

"I'm sorry Raven, but I'm your brother, too, and that isn't going change. You need me to be both, but you're too stubborn to admit that. But let me soften that with this." He sets the Brooks Brothers bag on the truck's floor and reaches for her cool hands. Once he has them folded within his, he looks up into her eyes and says the words that he imagines are just as hard for her. "You're my sister and I need you, too."

She sighs and leans toward him until the seatbelt catches her body just short of his, then she turns one hand up in his and squeezes the fingers that cover it. "I know, but like I tried to tell you yesterday. You want to protect me and help me carry the weight, but you never let me help you. We're not equal. "

The problem is that Charles has heard variations on this complaint before, but it usually comes in the context of a break up.

...

True to her word, Raven shows up at Quicksilver a few minutes after 8pm. Erik glances up long enough to check it's her and sees she's carrying a bag of take out and a Brooks Brothers shopping bag. He wipes his client's skin clean again and lowers the tattoo machine. The man is too tired to say much of anything; Erik prefers it that way.

He's been bent over this client's forearm on and off since five o'clock and his lower back is beginning to get to him. The harsh black work was finished an hour ago and thinks it will be two and a half hours more before the intricate color will be complete. The hardest part, tattooing along the client's ulna, is going slowly. With back pieces Erik can have clients move to minimize tattooing directly over their shoulder blades, but it's impossible to avoid major bones like this.

To make matters worse, the man he's been tattooing is lean; there's been little to shield him from the machine's needle when it buzzes against his bones. They're both doing their best, Erik thinks, but the client's twitching and squirming is taking a five hour job and turning it into six. If the client hadn't flown out from Chicago to get this piece Erik would send him home. Instead he considers offering a face-saving break; it will hurt even more when they resume, but he thinks the man might be good for another forty-five minutes or so.

"I need to talk to my assistant," Erik says. "Let's take ten minutes."

The client nods readily and lets Erik clean the ink off his arm again before pulling his earbuds out. Erik watches him take a shaky breath. "I'm really sorry; I'm having an off day."

"It isn't unusual," Erik says. "It's like I told you during consultation; the skin on the underside of your forearm and the bone that runs down from your elbow make this a painful tattoo."

The client sighs. "Yeah, just thought I could tough it out better than this."

If Erik made every client that said the same thing pay double, he thinks he could have amassed a retirement fund by now. He simply nods and sets his machine on its stand. "If you're running out of juice or food, Raven won't mind picking up something for you from the coffee shop next door. She's done it before."

The man stands up slowly and shakes his head. "I might take you up on that later, but I've still got enough provisions."

He shuffles away, out to the gallery space and presumably to the bathroom while Erik cleans the work area once again and throws away yet another pair of gloves. Inside Quicksilver he's fastidious in the extreme; in their business that's never a bad thing. He looks through the open area in the railroad tie wall where Raven has set down both bags and is going through their voice mail.

"Brooks Brothers?" he calls.

"The boots you loaned Charles. He says thank you, by the way." Raven looks up from the business line. "And I picked up some bibim bap from one of the Korean carts for you."

Erik resists the strong impulse to tip the Brooks Brothers bag forward and peer inside; it isn't likely that his rain boots will look any different than they did before he loaned them out. Instead he picks up his tepid bottled water and takes a long drink. It gives him time to think, to decide whether he wants to ask about her emotional state after seeing her brother off.

"Kitty's mom made boyos," he says, rather than ask about her or Charles. Having avoided thinking about his attraction to Charles most of the day, he finds himself curiously weak to temptation when faced with evidence of Charles' presence.

A snort lifts a lock of hair off Raven's face. "Is that a food thing? Because you should have told me you didn't need dinner."

"I had some for lunch," he replies smoothly, "and I was thinking of sharing, but now I'm rethinking that offer."

Raven sighs. Erik notes the slump of her shoulders under the layered gauze of her raw silk scarf. He finally admits he's being more of a dick than usual by ignoring Raven's emotional state. Long, unhurried strides bring him around the wall where he can place a hand on her elbow. "Your brother's plane leave on time?"

"Yeah." He sees her eyes are dry, but her mascara and eyeliner are long since smudged. When her gaze comes in contact with his he can also see her makeup could soon face a new threat. She drops her head, lets it collide heavily with the black side of his chest. "What do you do when the most important person in your life doesn't approve of the second most important person in your life?"

While Erik is tempted to make a joke about her employer actually being the most important person in her life, he holds back. "You don't do anything, because it isn't your problem. What Charles thinks, what Hank thinks, you can't do anything about."

Her sigh transmits heat and humidity through his shirt to warm his chest. "Why do I care so much about what he thinks?"

Erik frowns at the question, but refuses to recast it into the shape he desires. "Because he's your brother and you love him."

"Yeah." Her head doesn't move from his chest, which would be fine if her breathing against his skin wasn't a little on the arousing side after his failed attempt at masturbation that morning.

Gently, he grasps her biceps and pushes her back a safe distance. "You want to get drinks after work and talk about it?"

"Love to," she says, all the weariness weighing down every word, "but Hank goes back to Corvallis tonight and I'd like to see him before he goes. How about tomorrow morning? I happen to know your Mondays are totally dead."

Her dark eyebrows rise in a hopeful look. He's good at disappointing people he's close to, but he sees no need this time. "I'll come over at nine. Besides, I need to get more information about your brother if I'm going to design something he won't hate."

When his client comes back from the bathroom, Erik releases Raven's arms after a light squeeze and ducks under the noren, back to their work space. He cleans his machine, changes needles, disinfects his client again, and goes back to work.

An hour later, the man's music player dies and Erik has Raven tune in a classical station. He runs out of sugary snacks and liquids next and Raven is dispatched downstairs and around the corner for orange juice and fig bars. Erik's used to these things happening enough that he doesn't need to ask Raven to light incense.

It's nearly eleven by the time Erik's ready to wrap the new tattoo in plastic. Despite the client's movements, it's an excellent example of Erik's graphic work: a monochrome, dot-work stealth fighter jet with clouds of water color-esque washes that seem to bleed into the dots that share both elements. He's used the ulna to help define the wings' sharp edges and the radius to give shape to the fuselage.

Raven takes several photos of the piece and then Erik carefully wraps and tapes it up. Raven handles payment and explains aftercare with the same strict voice she used in the morning with the touchup client. Erik orders him a cab while Raven talks and then throws himself into clean up with a passion and Dobbs Dead coming out of the speakers.

...

Charles sleeps most of the eleven hour flight from Vancouver to Heathrow; he takes enough transatlantic and transcontinental flights that he's grown used to the accommodations. It's much easier to sleep in business and first class; economy has always been impossible even the few times he's used muscle relaxers.

Heathrow proves better than he expects on a Monday afternoon, though it is overcast and drizzling. The regular cab service he deals with has cars on the curb for £70 but his frequent use renders him the ride £50. He spends the duration of the ride thinking about Raven, Erik Lehnsherr, and the tattoo industry in general. Once he's safely deposited at his flat in Oxford, he messages his two current sex partners about meeting up. After that he throws himself down for a nap in hopes of finding better sleep than what was had on the plane.

Unfortunately, when he checks his phone after an hour of tossing and turning in his quiet flat, both his partners have reported in with other plans. One of the two has suggested an afternoon rendezvous on Thursday. Charles prefers evenings and sleeping afterward and responds as such. Some of his partners call him bossy, but he doesn't see a problem with communicating his preferences in a sex-only relationship; he wishes more of his partners would do the same.

With sleep elusive and his libido unusually active for his travels, he distracts himself with internet radio and gathering his dry cleaning. As an afterthought, he switches the station to Portland's classical station, 89.9.

When they were children, he and Raven used to play with the huge old record player in one of the guest bedrooms. They would stack record after record on the adaptor atop the spindle and as each record ended, the needle would move back, the bottom record of the stack would drop down, and the needle would advance once more. They listened to hours of classical music, interspersed with Brian's worn Beatles and Beach Boys records.

He listens to enough classical music without Raven that he rarely thinks of her when he does. However, the Portland station is fresh in his mind and so is the conversation they had under the canopy and in Erik's truck. What should really be fresh in his mind is the conference, but he's hung up on Raven, his chronic loneliness, and the idea of spending a few weeks somewhere that isn't his dark, clutter-infested flat and all the quiet it collects within its walls.

Alone with the quiet, he wonders if Raven is as happy with her job despite as she says. He wishes it hadn't been her asshole employer that watered the seed of doubt. He might be physically attracted to said asshole, but that isn't important: Raven is. What if Raven is as satisfied with her life as Erik said on Charles first day in Portland?

Additionally, Raven seems happy with Hank no matter how much Charles tries to pressure her otherwise. Hank is brilliant and can hold his own in intellectual subjects. His experience in the sciences means there's less background to explain when Charles talks with the young man. Young and brilliant as he is, Hank will likely continue to grow ideas that will surprise and fascinate for decades to come. As long as he invests that same passion into the relationship, maybe Raven won't grow bored. And if she's right about their sleeping schedules, maybe it could work out the way none of his relationships ever do.

It's as he's headed out into the rain with his garment bags that he remembers, again, Erik's hand on his vest. This time he thinks, perhaps sex is the answer; enough sex will likely put Erik out of his mind. Then again, perhaps he should get back into boxing and get his clock cleaned rather than his chicken choked. His thoughts are, gladly, interrupted when his phone buzzes with a message. He checks it at the cleaners and sees a 503 number he doesn't recognize. Curious, he taps it open.

This is Erik Lehnsherr. I need input to design for you. I prefer to get it directly from the client themselves. If nothing else, forward any images you see in magazines, movies, or books that intrigue you.

"You prefer to get it from your clients, do you, Mr. Lehnsherr?" Charles deletes the text on instinct. "If only you weren't so bloody tempting."

...

There's a message on Erik's phone Monday morning when he gets in from his run; Raven's begged off meeting. He wouldn't mind her absence after the dramatic weekend, but he wants to start on Charles' design. She forwards him Charles' number when he asks and he sends a couple inquiries; neither of which yield replies.

Annoyed and frustrated, he goes with the age old route of running image searches on Charles' full name. He receives a surprising number of pictures of Raven's brother which do nothing at all to dissuade Erik's physical attraction. If anything, he's startled by just how expressive Charles is, how charming he looks when he's presumably in his element. He frowns when the search turns up even more images of a Roman Catholic saint.

Charles doesn't seem religious, he hopes he isn't, but it's all Erik has to go on. Drawing on his observations of Charles' behavior and some of Raven's more pointed criticisms, Erik takes up one of his drafting pens and gets to work. If Charles didn't like the first facetious design he made, this one will likely make him angry.

He spends most of Monday working between different sketches; one hagiography of Charles Francis Xavier and several sketches of naval warships from his Sunday consultation. Kitty visits Monday afternoon to do homework and to sprawl on the gallery couch to play games on her phone. She tries to get him to draw one of the warships on her as a practice run, but he only answers with crumpled paper balls. She retaliates in kind.

Tuesday morning picks up where Monday left off. A smile lifts the corners of his lips as Erik cleans Quicksilver in the morning; he discovers paper balls between the couch's cushions and even one in the ceramic vase they use as a umbrella holder.

He's also now armed with a dozen or so library books on American and Russian naval vessels, M.C. Escher, and Catholic iconography. Erik is lost in the zone of his work, shirtless to let his tattoo breathe and slashing his pen on paper to form variation on variation of warship.

Raven doesn't come in until that afternoon and at first he doesn't recognize her. She walks in singing something that makes no sense, but sounds suspiciously like horribly mangled French. When she comes into his view from where he's seated at the desk, she has his attention at first glance.

Her hair is a glorious, unnatural red. It swings around her face in a thick fall of burning color. The tips dance over her shoulders like holy flames that burn without consuming. The contrast of the red does far more for the blue coils on her shoulders than ever did the blond.

Raven catches him staring and stops to spin around on the ball of her foot. Her hair swings about her face as she stops and tilts her head to one side. She lifts a shoulder and, thanks to her loose-necked top, brings more skin and the satin band of her bra strap into view. "Hank says he needs time to get used to it and Charles is going to hate it. What do you think?"

"I think I need to get laid," Erik says dryly. "And that it's a good thing I'm sitting at a desk."

She laughs and shakes her head merrily. "C'mon Erik, you've got nothing to be ashamed of; I've seen it before and after you've tented your pants."

"Don't remind me." He shakes his head at her sense of humor. "I think your hair looks good. The red brings out the chimera's snakes. You could probably go more orange to flatter them even more."

"The red will fade with a couple washes." Still smiling, she ducks the noren and comes to lean against the doorway. "This is why I work here for such shit wages; unasked for flattery."

Erik snorts and flicks her thigh with a snap of his fingers. She laughs and rubs at her jeans where his fingernail hit. "You get what you deserve; I don't pay you to talk."

"You do so," she retorts. "You pay me to talk, because you can't be bothered to do it. You're an antisocial dick."

He shrugs. "What was that about unasked for flattery?"

"Only you would consider that flattery." She leans down for a moment to stare at the dragon she's branded him with.

"So you want to talk about your brother not liking Hank now?" he asks, because he can't deny the truth and talking about him makes him uncomfortable.

The question has the desired effect; Raven subsides. Her face doesn't fall nor does she fill her lungs for a heavy sigh. Instead she slips down the wall to sit on the edge of his desk and picks up one of his drafting pens to fiddle with. "Not really. I already talked to Hank and I kind of want a rest from the topic for a bit."

Though an infrequent repository for Raven's sibling angst, Erik finds himself surprised and strangely disappointed at the response. "How did Hank take it?"

"Pretty well," Raven replies, studying the pen's barrel. "Considering he's never had to live with my brother's disapproval before. He's kind of sensitive to what people think of him, so he was really upset. But…" She leans sideways over the desk, her face horizontal to Erik's wary vertical. Gravity pulls her newly red hair down in a wave, but now it isn't long enough to brush the desk top. "Last night he said he didn't care what Charles thinks, because he's in a relationship with me, not him."

It's grudging, but it has to be said. "I approve of your overly sensitive boyfriend; he's shown he's strong when it matters."

Raven stills, her sideways face's mercurial smile, the one that says she's putting on a brave face, melts away. For a moment he thinks she's going to cry again. He drops his pen and pushes away his sketchbook away to take her hands, but then she surges forward from the desk. It's only because he was reaching for her at all that he catches her shoulders, but using the wall for leverage, she over-powers his strength with her momentum. "Thank you!"

The desk chair skids back, the two back legs catch, and then they're tipping back, riding the chair to the floor. Erik has time to brace himself before they hit the floor in a tumble of limbs. After years of being shoved against walls or thrown to floors, Erik is proficient at keeping his head from bouncing hard off the hardwood floor. The impact is hard enough that he wonders if Hammerpress downstairs will hear it.

He's a little worried he'll react instinctually and fight back, but while the impact against the floor is one thing and Raven's weight another, his tension has been bleeding out from his pen and into his sketches. A couple books on the bookshelf fall over with their impact against the floor, but both he and Raven are fine after the reverberations of the hit fade.

Sprawled on his chest, her hands an unexpected cushion at the back of his head, Raven lays along Erik's torso with a huge grin. "I know I shouldn't need to hear it, but I still do! I hate it, but I want to hear somebody approves of Hank. He's so smart and sweet! He doesn't care that I've fucked more girls than he has. He doesn't care that I have tattoos; he even kisses them, Erik! He kisses my chimera! And he trusts me not to be inappropriate with you and he doesn't want me to go back to art school unless I want to!"

It's a little like being tackled by an aggressively friendly Labrador, Erik decides. For a moment he allows himself to be swept along with her deluge of enthusiasm. It's easy to do when the emotions aren't his. It feels good to pull positivity out of her, to say the thing that makes her happy, but when he thinks about it, about why she's happy about something that she should be able to take for granted, his answering smile drops off the map.

He reaches up and drags his hand through her red hair, looks her in her light brown eyes. "If your elbow weren't digging into your journeyman tattoo, this would be every bit as inappropriate as Hank trusts you not to be."

Raven rears back, straddling Erik's stomach. "Oh, shit, I am so sorry! And, whoah, you did say you need to get laid. Do you want me to hook you up with the lady that does my hair? Or her business partner? He's pretty hot, but I don't know if he's into bisexual guys. He did once say he'd do Charles, though."

Charles is bisexual, too. Erik grits his teeth, because he never even thought about that, just assumed that it wouldn't be a problem if he really wanted to get his hands on him. He hooks his feet around the chair legs to get some leverage to push Raven off. "Yeah, you can introduce me to Hank now."

Raven doesn't resist his push; she falls aside but she's still smiling. "Erik, you don't get to screw Hank; he's straight. But if you guys did, I would film it."

It's not what he meant and they both know it. Raven finds her equivocation much funnier than Erik does. In retaliation he grabs her ankle as she gets to her feet and tumbles her back to the floor. "Fortunately for both of you, I don't want to fuck your chivalrous boyfriend."

Scrabbling at the floor with an indignant squawk, Raven tries to drop Erik back down with her by attacking his knees. Legs as long as they are, it's a simple thing to sidestep her lunge. She gets him around one knee, but he's already moved the preponderance of his weight to the other. When she doesn't let go, he drags her like one would a particularly large puppy that won't let go of a pant leg. Raven giggles delightedly as he shuffles her across the clean floor.

He doesn't drag her far; he sets the chair back up so he can sit at the desk again. When she twigs to his intention she sighs and releases him. "So you don't want me to set you up for a hook up?"

He holds up his left hand and wiggles his fingers meaningfully. "I'm self-sufficient, thanks."

"What a waste of cock," Raven says to the ceiling. "To borrow a line from my brother: Are you even aware that you won the genetic lottery of cock? Share the wealth."

Erik grips his pen harder than absolutely necessary when he picks it up and nearly tears the pages of his current sketchbook as he flips back from bristling warships to Christian iconography. "Your brother talks like that? He doesn't seem the type."

"Charles is everyone's type," Raven says. "If there's a line between sex positivity and true sluttiness, he mistook it for a finish line and blasted through."

Erik spins his pen around his thumb several times in quick succession; he looks down at his current design in a whole new light. A light that suddenly brings him a smile. He looks over his shoulder at Raven who is finally drawing herself up off the floor. "This just got better. It'll be Thursday or Friday before it's finished, but you can take a look now."

Curiosity animating her like nothing else, Raven gets to her feet and comes over to the desk. She places her hands on the chair's back and looms over Erik's shoulder. Erik leans to one side to watch her take in the scene he's drawn. He enjoys the transformation of her face as she cycles through confusion, shock, and then hilarity.

One hand comes off the chair to cover her mouth as she starts to laugh again. "Oh my God, Erik, what are you doing? He's not religious at all and that would take up his whole back and over forty hours! He'll hate it!"

"It's just for shock value. I sent him a couple messages about what he wants and he's never replied," Erik chuckles. "And you didn't give me any direction, so I started researching his very Roman Catholic name. Since his patron saint wasn't fitting, I went with a different one."

"Of all the saints you could have gone with…! Oh, wait," Raven chokes, tears of withheld hilarity squeeze from the corners of her eyes. She points at the page with a finger that shakes with her full body laughter. "Charles is uncircumcised."

...

In the early evening on Friday, Charles picks up his dry cleaning after a particularly long planning session. There's an envelope taped to the plastic covering the suit he wore the Saturday previous. Usually he's better about emptying his pockets, but it was a long and often stressful time between finally seeing Raven again, meeting Hank, and dealing with her confrontational mentor. He supposes he left some cash or maybe business cards in a pocket, but when he gets home and hangs the suits back up in his closet he find the envelope curiously thin.

Intrigued, he slips a finger under the flap and tears the tape in two. Charles parts the edges of the envelope and draws out a folded and wrinkled piece of white paper. It releases a strong odor of cigarettes into the air. Baffled, he unfolds it, expecting to see a name and phone number.

What he gets is Erik's elegant Spencerian script announcing the loss of his bet with his sister. Sputtering obscenities, he tosses the paper blindly aside and storms out of the room, grabs his umbrella from its stand, and heads out for a pint. The rain is heavier in Oxford than in Portland, but he hasn't far to go through the heavy press of rain to get to the pub he uses for pick ups. All the same, he runs the whole way to burn through his annoyance.

Two hours later, Charles is nursing his third pint and the lovely woman next to him seems to be falling for his rubbish genetic pick up lines. She's not stupid by any stretch of the imagination; she's simply charmed by his act and likely after the same thing he is. They've been chatting and messaging friends, telling each other the funnier messages and situations their friends are sending.

That's when Charles gets another mail from Erik; his face flushes with anger as well as alcohol. The woman, Jackie, sees the strangled look on Charles' face as he tries to decide whether to open the attachment or not.

"Oh, no," she says, "looks like you actually live with your mother and she's just told you not to bring home company."

The comment brings Charles past aggravation, into amusement. Mission accomplished; she's decided to go home with him. He flashes a cheeky grin. "Actually, no, it's from my sister's demented art teacher."

"I hope he hasn't sent you a nude of your sister," Jackie winks and laughs when Charles takes the joke well.

"Definitely not," Charles snorts. "I'd kill him. My sister's dating a nice post-doc boy. Not that I'd blame her if she had, I suppose; the man's built like an Olympic athlete and has cheek bones that could shave a straight razor."

Jackie's dark eyes twinkle. "Metrosexual is a plus, Charles. Did he send you a nude of himself, then?"

"I highly doubt it, but if so you are more than welcome to it," Charles chuckles. He takes a sip of his drink and opens the mail. He finds no message, just an attached image. It's a nude alright, but it isn't of Erik nor Raven. No, Erik has sent him a highly detailed nude of Charles.

Charles' beer isn't expelled out of his mouth to start with, but it does go down the wrong way. He chokes, drops his phone on the bar, and grabs a fistful of napkins as he coughs. He's grateful for the napkins when the burn of alcohol registers in his nasal passages and goes on to dribble from his nose.

His face burns with embarrassment and no small amount of irritation. Raven and her asshole boss.

"Your sister after all?" Jackie asks, picking up his phone. Her sly grin turns immediately into a fascinated moue. "St. Sebastian? Well then, not your sister. This demented art teacher, does he like you or hate you?"

Though he isn't quite recovered and his nose burns fiercely with the remnants of alcohol, Charles snatches his phone back from her and looks at the screen again. The monochrome image remains the same: Erik's harsh pen strokes render everything he draws in black and white. There's no grayscale to speak of.

The figure is drawn in repose, crumpled from a standing position, and riddled with arrows. It's clear the figure is dying, the eyes (his eyes) are rolling back, blood is spilling everywhere. Around his ankle is a heavy manacle with a chain that is attached to a half-opened bird cage. Waiting to escape the cage is a raven.

On second glance, Charles is not embarrassed, but so infuriated he totally forgets that Erik has drawn him naked. Because the flow of ink blood blends in with the cage's shadow in such a way that it looks like it's the figure's blood that has opened the cage to free the raven.

"Oh, I think he hates me," Charles growls and hits reply automatically. He's just about to type a hateful message that he imagines Erik will likely laugh at back in America, when Jackie places a hand on his wrist.

Still burning with irritation, he flicks his gaze up to the woman's face. "Charles, the best revenge is living well, don't you think? Why don't you come back to my place and I can see just how closely art resembles life?"

The proposition doesn't dilute his anger, but the idea has its appeal. Charles looks back down at the reply screen on his phone and then at Jackie's hand on his wrist. Why not? Getting his ashes hauled seems like as good a way as any of getting token vengeance. It would also give him time to calm down and send a much more scathing reply.

Pocketing his phone, he nods to Jackie, the beginnings of his humor starting to return, but only just. "I like your way of thinking, but why don't you come to my place if it's closer?"

He settles both of their tabs and they head out together.

* * *

_Special thanks to Rumcity (aka luciddrugs) who endured my researching, my thoughts on symbolism, answered art history questions, and inundated me with pics of St. Francis Xavier and, my favorite, St. Sebastian_.


End file.
